


Far from Boring

by Junejuly15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Love, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Misunderstanding, Nightmares, Romance, Sexy, The Purple Shirt of Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junejuly15/pseuds/Junejuly15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'All John wanted to do was to kiss Sherlock senseless, make sweet and lazy love to him, grab a bite and then drift off to sleep. In precisely that order.' Sherlock and John living as a couple - and domestic life turns out to be far from boring ...</p><p>Sequel to DENIAL - Established Johnlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleeping Arrangements

John was walking up dark and deserted Baker Street. He had spent the last two and a half days at a medical conference in Manchester refreshing his knowledge on childhood diseases. An interesting conference from a professional point of view and besides, he had used the opportunity to meet some colleagues he knew from way back at university. Admittedly, last night had been short, but it had offered him more than a glimpse of that unique black sense of humour prevailing within the medical profession. Quite a change from his life in London.

The train journey back from Manchester had been tiresome, a chatty old lady divulging all her ailments, from her hips and elbows to various other, better left unmentioned, intimacies – Nothing new, it always happened when people found out he was a doctor. Usually he didn't mind, but the hours on the train had been dragging on and the old dear had been chatting away in a rather screechy, nerve-wrecking voice – being hard of hearing had been one of her minor ailments - and now he was very much looking forward to a quiet evening at home, his body and mind filled with longing for Sherlock.

All he wanted to do was to kiss Sherlock senseless, make sweet and lazy love to him, grab a bite and then drift off to sleep. In precisely that order.

 

x

 

Opening the front door his senses were immediately attacked by a pungent smell. He sniffed - _Lacquer?_ He sniffed again, quickly mounting the stairs, a strange mixture of impatience, curiousity and desire driving him on. _Enamel paint?_ He dropped his overnight bag and his black jacket on the landing. _Wall paint? Another bloody experiment, is it?_ John quietly chuckled as he imagined Sherlock catalogueing one hundred and twenty two different types of pale blue enamel paint.

John shivered, the flat was cold and looked rather deserted, only a small lamp on the desk was switched on. From what he could make out in the dim light the kitchen was a mess. And contrary to what he had expected Sherlock was not to be found perched on his usual stool at the counter _experimenting away_. 'Sherlock? John peered around the corner into the living room, 'Sherlock, where are you?'

'Up here, John. In your room!' John frowned – What was he doing in his bedroom? And if not for an experiment why that strong smell of paint? _Bloody hell!_ That could only mean – He took two steps at a time and yanked the door of his bedroom open. He froze. _Former bedroom_ \- judging by what he now saw in front of him, ' _Jesus_ , Sherlock! What are you doing?'

Sherlock half turned and looked up at him, a smile fairly lighting up his feline features. He was kneeling on the floor which he had covered with old newspapers and something else. John couldn't quite make out what it was, but it looked like –'Are these my medical textbooks?' Sherlock turned his gaze back to the floor and squinted, 'Um – yes - I've run out of newspapers, so I took what I could find on your desk. You don't need those anymore.' Not a question, but a statement.

He got up and aimed one of those disarming lopsided smiles at John, 'John, how I missed you!' _Oh, hell, Sherlock knew exactly how to disarm him – completely._ John, who was marvelling about how quickly after coming home to this impossible madman he had been bordering on exasperation, fury even, couldn't help but grin when he took in Sherlock in the light of the naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling. What he saw was very appealing – _delectable_ was the word that sprang to John's mind, actually: Sherlock had white paint in his dark, dishevelled curls and on the tip of his nose. His eyes were glittering with amusement and genuine joy and his cheeks were sprinkled with paint. He wore an old pair of torn tight jeans – _Where did those come from?_ – teamed up with a plain white T-shirt. His feet were bare and also splattered with paint.

'For God's sakes, Sherlock, what are you doing?' John repeated, feeling a bit calmer now. 'Where is all my stuff? What have you done with it?' He stepped into the room, carefully avoiding the large puddles of paint on the floor. Two walls of the room had already been painted in a blinding, clinical white showing off all the better the rather dark, stained, shabby rest of the room. John looked around and what he saw rendered him speechless - his bedroom had been stripped _completely_ bare. Everything was gone. His bed, his wardrobe, his desk, his chest of drawers, his little bedside table, his books – everything.

Sherlock noticed John's flabbergasted expression and hastened to say, 'Don't worry, John. Everything's still here. I figured out you wouldn't need this room anymore since you always sleep with me. I've been thinking, John, we can really find a better use for it now.'

John heard something in Sherlock's voice that he didn't hear very often – in fact almost only when he was talking about a particularly gruesome triple murder or when he set out to rant about all those imbeciles at the Yard – but there it was: undisguised, childlike enthusiasm.

'Right. I hear what you're saying, I just don't understand it!' And he didn't, honestly.

'John, it's obvious, isn't it!' Sherlock waved his arms about indicating the vastness of the now empty room, splattering paint from the paint brush he was still holding.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, he felt very tired all of a sudden, 'It's not obvious to me, Sherlock. Seriously, it isn't!'

'John, I'm going to have my own lab in here. There's plenty of space and there are enough sockets – no tap and no sink, that's a bit of a downfall, but it can't be helped at the moment, maybe we can arrange something later. And I can vacate the kitchen, at least partially.'

'But what about _my stuff?_ ' John said through gritted teeth, he was incredulous.

'Well, some of your things are going to my room – our room – and the rest will go to the dump.'

'What do you mean, the rest will go to the dump? I have got _absolutely_ nothing that needs throwing out!' John was really getting irritated now, he didn't like to be ordered, didn't like it when things concerning his personal space were decided above his head. No, he wanted to be asked - nicely! And if he really had to give up his own room, his refuge, he felt he had every right to be a bit touchy about it. He frowned and dipped his chin in his customary fashion, puckering his lips.

This gesture, as Sherlock knew very well, expressed annoyance and exasperation. So Sherlock put down the dripping paintbrush which had added nice little splatters to his jeans and the floor when he had expansively waved his arms in his enthusiasm. Apparently he didn't mind, he just roughly wiped his hands clean on his jeans and walked over to John. Looking down on him he cupped his chin, smearing some of the paint on John doing so, and forced him to look up into his eyes.

'John. I'm really sorry this bothers you so much. I honestly thought you wouldn't mind. Frankly, I was bored out of my wits while you were away and this seemed to be a good idea. You must admit that it's by far the better option.' Sherlock spoke softly using his seductive low voice fully to his advantage. His ice blue eyes bore into John's.

But John wasn't quite ready to relent yet, 'Better option than _what_ exactly?'

Sherlock grinned wickedly, 'Answering distracting texts and running to the devil, of course –'

John snorted and his thoughts briefly wandered back to the beginnings of their love when Sherlock had played a dangerous game with this maniac Moriarty. 'When you look at it that way, you might have a point, actually,' John finally conceded and leaned in to kiss Sherlock. He tasted of paint and dissolvent. 'You smell like a DIY store,' he said, 'I really can't picture you gracing a store full of muscled, tattoed macho men buying paint and brushes. I'm sure you looked horribly out of place among all those DIY fiends.'

'I perfectly managed to blend in,' Sherlock sounded a bit annoyed as if John was seriously doubting his capacity of dissembling.

'Sure, you did. All I'm saying is that boredom must have been truly overwhelming!'

Sherlock quickly closed the tiny remaining gap between them, 'Quite!' he murmured against John's ear and placed a kiss just below it, right where he knew it would affect John the most. John closed his eyes and placed his hands on Sherlock's jeans-clad hips. The sensation of this rough fabric on those narrow hips felt strangely arousing and he sharply sucked in his breath. He felt Sherlock's knowing smirk. No need to _see_ his smirking face, no need to say anything, John thought, he knows full well what he's doing to me.

Sherlock slowly moved on to John's lips, brushing over them, darting the tip of his tongue out urging John to welcome him. They were making up for the last days of separation, all tongues and lips, warm and wet, and Sherlock groaned from deep within his chest. He put his hands on John's back letting them glide slowly downwards until they cupped his backside. Tilting his hips against John's he started to move against him. Their breathing grew jerky and their kissing more urgent.

John broke off to catch a breath, 'You know, Sherlock,' he said huskily, 'This painting business has been a bit of a cold shower because all I have been dreaming about on this blasted train journey back from Manchester was finding you here, at home, grabbing you, pinning you against the wall and kissing you senseless.'

'Is that all you had in mind, love?' Sherlock muttered, his mouth buried in John's hair. A shiver ran through John's body - Hearing Sherlock use that term of endearment still made his knees go weak.

'No, not quite,' He chuckled and nuzzled Sherlock's long, pale neck before he met his eyes again, 'That was just the boring part of my plans for tonight. There might be a slight problem, though.'

'What could possibly be a problem?' Sherlock murmured lazily against John's lips.

'Where is my bed?'

'In my room. Along with the rest of your - ' Sherlock stopped doing what he was doing and that was kissing and nibbling John's lips, ' _Oh!_ ' he exclaimed and this _Oh!_ sounded distinctly sheepish. John silently prayed that he'd misheard, 'Oh?' he repeated, a frown knitting his brows.

Sherlock looked at him, his beautiful features genuinely distressed, 'Everything is in my room. And when I say _everything_ , I mean everything, all of it. Your furniture, your books, your clothes, every single thing. In fact, I have to admit, it's quite impossible to access my room.'

'Sherlock! Where are we going to … – and where are we going to sleep?' John saw their sweet lazy lovemaking and his peaceful dozing off vanish into thin air.

'Wait here, John! Not to worry. I'll be back in a moment,' Sherlock pecked him on the cheek and bounded down the stairs. John let out a sigh – _I'm never bored_. He walked over to the window and leaned against the frame, one of the few surfaces not yet covered in paint.

Downstairs he heard a door being yanked open and some muffled shuffling about. Soon afterwards there was some clinking and clanking in the living room. A loud bang was followed by Sherlock's sharp exclamation of pain and a colourful curse. John chuckled. Next, something heavy was being dragged along the floor along the hall, followed by the swishing sound of an obviously voluminous object. Loud screeching and a thud ensued - then silence.

A moment later soft footsteps treaded up the stairs and a beaming Sherlock opened the door. He walked over to John and kissed him tenderly, 'I've moved things around a bit. Now - Would you like to come down and show me what _exactly_ you had in mind for us tonight?'

 

x

 

'I missed you,' John kissed Sherlock's forehead, smoothing down some of those unruly curls with his thumb. They were lying on their makeshift bed in front of the fireplace in the living room.

'Hmm,' was the only answer, 'I'm sure the pretty blond GP was more than an ample replacement for me –'

'Sherl .. ' John sighed, 'What are you going on about? I was just having a friendly pint and a chat with her. And how on earth can you –' John broke off when he felt the slight heaving of Sherlock's chest. 'Are you laughing? At me?'

'John, I love it when you get all flustered. Besides, I was right,'

'About what?'

'There _was_ a pretty blond GP and -,' but before he could prove his extraordinary deducing skills once more John leaned down and covered his mouth with his own - because those last wonderful weeks with Sherlock had expanded Dr John Watson's knowledge of the only consulting, and frankly maddening, detective in the world quite considerably. And one particle of this newly acquired intimate knowledge was that kissing was a sure - and sometimes the _only_ \- way to make Sherlock Holmes shut up.


	2. The Purple Shirt of Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My original plan was to write a chapter about something entirely different, love letters to be precise, but then … Well, here's the result … 
> 
> John tells Sherlock about a fansite called 'The Purple Shirt of Sex' - Sherlock is incredulous, but also intrigued ..
> 
> Enjoy reading!

Sherlock hailed a cab in his usual fashion - sure of himself, impatient and with his thoughts already on their way to the Yard. Lestrade had contacted him twenty minutes ago. Unfortunately John couldn't be at his side today because he had agreed to act as a locum for one of his old friends from university - Andrew's wife had given birth to their first baby daughter last night and John had offered to help.

John had been delighted to apply his newly refreshed knowledge on childhood diseases. And as happy as Sherlock was for him, he had to admit that the thought of lonely days at home had filled him with dread – no substantial case in sight – and the enthusiasm for his DIY project already on the wane. To be honest he had already grown restless, pacing the flat and had been more than relieved when Lestrade's text had come.

The cab stopped and Sherlock quickly climbed into the back, _Scotland Yard, please_. Settling back in the soft seat of the cab he closed his eyes.

 

x

 

_I miss him – already. He has only been gone for a few hours. He looked so happy when he went, so at ease with himself. I envy his peace of mind - greatly. His mind isn't constantly racing in overdrive – not screaming for distraction. It amazes me how he's able to focus entirely on me when we're together. It's no strain for him. He opens himself and every nerve is ready for me – and me only._

_I miss him - and I need to retire to the one chamber of my mind palace marked_ John _– it's growing to be by far the biggest one, actually, what with all the new sensations, feelings, sounds and tastes I store there. When I retreat to John's chamber I hear the peaceful sound of raindrops scattering against the window pane - the soft hissing of boiling water in the kettle - the clinking of a spoon against the wall of a mug - the rustling of newspapers on a Sunday morning._

_I feel his soft tanned skin, the star-shaped scar on his left shoulder, the softest skin on his body to be found in the folds behind his ears. I see a smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose so tiny that only the most intimate of looks can discern them._

_I hear his throaty moans when I kiss him, claim him, make him my own. Layer upon layer of sounds, gestures, sensations and feelings - and all of them building a home. For John - who is my love, my heart, my life - and for me._

Sherlock smiled and felt this warm tingling feeling inside him that he had learned to attribute to John and to John only.

 

x

 

When the cab stopped in front of Scotland Yard Sherlock got out and paid the driver. He turned his collar up and slipped his hands inside his coat pockets. He frowned when his fingers brushed over a small rectangle. He gingerly closed his fingers over this small form and pulled it out of his pocket. It was a small piece of paper, it looked like a page torn from the note books John used. His heart started to beat faster and a slight perspiration moistened his fingertips. Sherlock chuckled when he noticed his bodily reactions to one of John's belongings.

Slowly he unfolded it and read what John had written in his doctor's scrawl: _I miss you - I love you_ , and Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. Carefully he folded the paper and slipped it back into his pocket. When he walked into the building he felt that nothing could unhinge him today.

 

x

 

Sherlock recoiled from the lips crashing down on his own, his ice blue eyes widening in shock. He tried to lean back as far as possible, but two small hands were grabbing him tightly by the front of his purple shirt. He was frantically groping for purchase and by taking a few forceful steps backwards he finally managed to make her relent and let go of him. Sherlock straightened his back and pulling himself up to his full height he glared down at her, his eyes cold and cutting.

Slowly he raised his right hand and wiped it over his lips in a slow and deliberate gesture expressing all the disgust he felt. 'Don't you ever come near me again, do you understand!' his voice was a low threatening growl. The young woman who now realized that she had read him completely wrong nodded weakly, deeply embarrassed. Sherlock gave her one last look and then strolled out of the small office aiming at nonchalance. He crossed the open-plan office and joined Lestrade at the conference table.

Lestrade couldn't suppress a smirk when he saw Sherlock's flushed face, 'Did she make a pass at you?'

'What are you talking about?' Sherlock snapped, his tone clearly intended as a warning for Lestrade - A warning the inspector completely and deliberately chose to ignore.

'I don't think you have been introduced yet. That's our new assistant you've just _met_ , Janet Hunter's the name. She was very keen to be assigned to my squad, told me in the job interview that she came to be interested in police work when she started reading John's blog –'

'Oh, for God's sakes!' Sherlock muttered under his breath.

'She also mentioned an infatuation with a certain dark-haired, mysterious sleuth. In fact, I got the impression that she is nurturing what people call an _unhealthy obsession_!'

'And you hired her? And let her loose – on me?' Sherlock leaned forward closing the gap between the inspector and him. What he had just heard made him very much doubt Lestrade's common sense.

'I didn't see any harm,' Lestrade smirked, opening his arms wide in a gesture indicating complete innocence, 'After all she didn't strike me as the stalker type of a girl. Just a bit of a crush on the only consulting detective in the world. No harm in that, is there? And, besides, we all need a bit of fun sometimes!'

'On my expense? Thank you ever so much, _Inspector_ Lestrade!' Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and saw Janet slinking out of the small office. She looked composed, but studiously tried to avoid looking at him. She didn't quite succeed, and when their eyes met he glowered at her one more time for good measure causing her to blush a deep crimson.

'I do believe that stare annihilated any feelings she might have harboured for you. Nicely played!' Lestrade said sarcastically, sorry to see that little line of amusement dying so quickly. Sherlock curled the corners of his lips in a way that made it blatantly obvious that he was in fact _not_ amused.

'Right, Sherlock. Back to business, then. I summoned you because we need to go over some of the old case notes, some unclear statements. I originally assigned Janet to do that with you, but as that seems out of the question now –' Sherlock aimed another one of those cutting glares at Lestrade forcing him to look away and clear his throat, 'Um – yes. So we have to find somebody else to help you with that.'

He let his gaze wander around the vast office until it settled on the one person he had been looking for, 'Donovan?' he barked, 'Come over here and go through the statements with Sherlock, will you!' The look Lestrade earned both from Sherlock and Donovan almost made up for the fact that there wasn't any more gleeful amusement to be had from Janet Hunter swooning over Sherlock Holmes.

 

x

 

When Sherlock finally left the Yard it was already dark. The hours it had taken to go through the old statements had been very tiring and additionally marred by the close proximity of Sally Donovan. He could work with her on a professional basis to a certain extent, but he constantly had to fight the urge to bounce a myriad of sarcastic remarks off her, monitoring her reactions and trying to find her breaking point.

Now, his mind was fully occupied by John. His nerves tingling with anticipation. He wanted to focus on only one thought: Coming home. He wanted to shut off all redundant sections of his brain – forget all the Lestrades, Donovans and Janets of this world - and concentrate entirely on John – on them.

John was already back - lights ablaze in the living room. Sherlock looked up at the warm glow emanating from the windows of their home. And it was a _home_ , ever since John had moved in with him, even more so since they had become lovers – partners – a couple. The first home he loved coming back to, the first real home of his life.

He let himself into the house and walked up the stairs to their flat. Taking his time, relishing the feelings that spread inside him like a warming glow.

'John!' Sherlock walked up to him and gathered the smaller man in an urgent embrace, 'I missed you, love,' he whispered. John leaned into his need and wrapped his arm around his waist, letting his head rest on Sherlock's shoulder. 'I missed you, too,' he muttered against the rough fabric of Sherlock's coat. He closed his eyes and abandoned himself entirely to the warmth emanating from Sherlock's body and the cold still clinging to his coat. He inhaled the scent of wool and cigarettes and the office smell that clung to him, making him aware of their separation today.

Sherlock tightened his grip on John and there was something greedy in Sherlock's embrace, something John felt himself responding to instinctively. He lifted his head and sought his soft lips, hungrily, urgently. Licking over them, parting them, intertwining their tongues, sliding over teeth. He weaved his fingers through those black curls and after a moment he tightened his grip. He gently tugged to bring him even closer. Sherlock moaned into his mouth and started moving his hips against him, pressing into him, making John gasp with desire.

Sherlock broke off and smiled, a heartbreaking, open smile. His pupils were fully dilated, almost obscuring those lovely ice blue irises and his chest rose and fell in rapid succession. His face grew serious and he slowly shed his coat, followed by his suit jacket before he got down on his knees. Long, deft fingers opened John's belt buckle, the button and unzipped his trousers. Sherlock looked up at John, locking eyes before he pulled his trousers and pants down to his ankles. John smiled and when Sherlock's lips moved on him his vision blurred and he leaned back against the counter.

 

x

 

'I've been attacked, today,' Sherlock said sleepily, his head resting on John's chest. They were lying on the sofa in a state of half-dressed disarray. John's eyes shot open, 'Attacked? What do you mean, attacked?'

'Janet Hunter, a new assistant at the Yard chose to crash her lips onto mine. I call that an attack and I can assure you that it has been a most unpleasant sensation.'

'I very much hope so! Why did she do that? You didn't encourage her in any way, did you?'

'Of course not, John! Don't be obtuse! Lestrade was the one behind this funny little _charade_. He hired her a few days ago although she apparently told him about her _unhealthy obsession_ with me and your blog'

'Nothing unhealthy about my blog,' John drily remarked and Sherlock snorted. But then something dawned on John, 'Did you wear that shirt at the Yard?'

'Of course, I did,' Sherlock conceded lazily. John smirked, ' _That_ shirt! - THE PURPLE SHIRT OF SEX - as it is commonly referred to on the net.'

'What are you talking about?' Sherlock sat up, a confused look on his face.

'In fact, this shirt of yours is a celebrity, it even has its own fansite – let me show you,' John got up and fetched his laptop. After a few clicks he handed it over to Sherlock. The homepage of a site popped up sporting a photo of Sherlock wearing _that_ shirt and tight black trousers. He stood with his hands on his hips, torso turned to the side, making the buttons of the shirt slightly strain. The photo beautifully highlighted his slim physique. His face bore a serious expression, the lips slightly parted, he was apparently listening to someone not in the photo.

John, who was admittedly guilty of having accessed this site on numerous occasions, loved this shot of him – he looked simply beautiful.

Sherlock stared at the screen, incredulous, then something caught his eye and he squinted, 'I know that desk and the windows –' he squinted some more, 'That's at the Yard, John!' his voice sounded indignant, 'Some bastard at the Yard took this photo and set up this site!'

'Really? Who would be so cunning and do something like that?' John could hardly hide a trace of amusement in his voice. He had long harboured a suspicion as to who was responsible for it all – And Sherlock certainly wouldn't take long to find the culprit once he had set his extraordinary mind on it. Right now, he had no intention of helping him with that – no, he very much enjoyed Sherlock's indignation. And there was more to come - after all, he hadn't told Sherlock about all the other features of this site yet.

'Let me show you what else you can find here. Well, let's see,' a click, 'There's a blog, called _My life with Sherlock_ , told from the shirt's point of view,' another click, 'there's a FAQ section' two more clicks, 'and you can post fanart and fanfiction – '

' _Fanfiction?_ Who on earth writes something like that! No, don't tell me, it must be people with too much time at their hands. Seriously, aren't people supposed to go to work, to have lives of their own - ?' Sherlock's voice was a clear indicator of his mystification, the idea of people wasting their time over his shirt or anything else he was wearing apparently never seemed to have entered this brilliant mind of his.

John shrugged, 'Well, people seem to enjoy it. It is just a bit of harmless fun, really. Members of this site actually write about you and your shirt. They post adventure stories, crime stories, love stories, quite explicit ones, actually –'

'Explicit? What do you mean explicit? Me and the shirt getting _explicit_?'

'No, don't be daft, Sherlock. Of course not! But there are certain pairings,' Sherlock's eyebrows shot up at that, 'Quite a few pairings, actually. You and Donovan, you and Lestrade –' Sherlock's eyes widened in shock and he snorted, 'You and Anderson –'

' _I beg your pardon_?' This time there was heartfelt indignation in that remark. 'And of course, by far the most popular pairing of all, you and me!'

'Oh!' Sherlock's frown softened into a smirk – _Interesting_ \- 'How come you know so much about it? It sounds like inside knowledge to me,' He peered at the screen, 'This site is even bookmarked, for God's sakes!'

John looked sheepish and a defensive tone crept into his voice, 'I've been following this website from the very beginning. It's been amusing and – um - it allowed me to fantasise –'

'What would you fantasise about?'

'You – Us,' John blushed at the admission which was very endearing to Sherlock, 'When I was alone at home – um - It was my guilty pleasure.' Sherlock smiled and kissed John's blushing cheeks, 'Care to tell me what they are about? Those _fanfictions_?' When Sherlock said it it sounded distinctly filthy and unsavoury.

'Most of them deal with us as lovers. Our first kiss – our first time.' Sherlock rolled his eyes, 'Quite a few of those show you as the dominant partner and I'm the puppy-eyed admirer. There are others which reverse those roles. Oh – and quite a few depict you as a pirate!'

'A _pirate_? How on earth? That's ridiculous!' Sherlock couldn't hide a grin though – in fact he was enjoying this. 'John,' he lowered his voice in a way that he knew sent shivers down John's spine, 'The ones with the – um – I mean the explicit ones - Are they any good? The ones you used to fantasise about?'

John put the laptop down on the floor and cupped Sherlock's face with his hands, 'No, Sherlock,' he kissed him, 'Not half as good as reality turned out to be.'

And Sherlock grinned - irresistibly.


	3. NIghtmares, Memories and Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very intense and tender moments between the boys - sharing nightmares, trying to comfort each other, chasing away the fears …

_Watson! – Over here! Over here! – Run! Quick! Qu -_

John woke with a start sitting upright in his bed. Heaving chest, racing heart, his stomach cramping with fear. He didn't know where he was – it was pitch black - _Where?_ He moved his head – _Where?_ He rubbed his eyes and frantically scanning the darkness he tried to find his bearings

_– window – chair – wardrobe – bed -_

_Sherlock!_

_  
_

He let out a gush of air he had been holding back inside his lungs - too afraid to breathe - and screwed his eyes shut in relief. He fell back onto the sheets.

A softly whispered, 'Nightmare, John?' next to him in the dark and a warm hand sneaking its way onto his belly gently urging him to come closer. John shifted sideways until he was safe in Sherlock's arms. His breathing was still laboured with the remnants of fear and the adrenaline racing through his body. He gulped and tried to find an answer to this gentle enquiry - but none would come.

'It's alright, love,' a susurrant murmur, 'I'm here. Nothing can harm you,' John closed his eyes, grateful that Sherlock realized that he could not find an answer. That there _was_ in fact no simple answer – just as there was no rational way to explain why these images of war were still haunting him. He made a conscious effort to calm down his breathing and Sherlock helped him by gently caressing his chest and arms in slow and calming strokes.

The warmth and tenderness emanating from Sherlock was like a blanket – like one of those shock blankets in fact – he was comforting, offering protection without asking for anything in return. John felt his pulse slow down and the desire to put his fears into words came back to him. 'I'm out - in the streets, there's so much blood and I can't – I can't help. And then - there's this deafening bang and – ' John broke off, trying to fight back the emotions flooding him – _calm down, Watson, calm down_ \- 'Then there's this huge, angry explosion of pain and of dirt and of colours. And the smell, Sherlock. You cannot imagine the SMELL –' A sob escaped his mouth and Sherlock gathered him even closer in his arms, caressing him, soothing him.

Sherlock just held onto John and together they let the waves of memories wash over him until the last one had reached the shore. Sherlock didn't try to belittle John's fear or to talk those nightmares and memories away, he was just there – and John was thankful for that. He consciously breathed in and out a few times letting the air stream out through his mouth, trying to fight back the darkness, and slowly, slowly he managed to calm down. Sherlock still held onto him, steadily. They lay there like one, limbs entangled, close.

'You know, love, that I have trouble finding sleep too,' Sherlock spoke very softly, 'Most nights, when I'm awake I watch you and it calms me. And sometimes I see you going through your pain. I hear your cries. And I know what it feels like – I have never seen live action – I have never been a soldier. My nightmares are different – but sometimes they make me shun sleep nonetheless.'

John closed his eyes and gave himself entirely to Sherlock's low, velvety voice which was the most soothing sound he could possible imagine. He gently touched his fingers prompting him to go on.

'I don't allow myself to be ruled by fear during the day – I can rationalise fear away – so it's not a problem as long as my mind is occupied. But at night? I have no control and my mind might spin out of orbit and like a traitor let in all the fears. And then sometimes the ghouls of my past take over –' his voice had become agitated, and he paused, trying to regain control. John knew not to disturb him, knew that Sherlock would tell him now.

'It's - my father. It's my father's image that haunts me. The memories of his severe beatings, his cruelty, his ugly sneer when his belt crashed down on me. And he wouldn't stop when you were reduced to a whimpering mass on the floor. No, he would then start to humiliate you in an attempt to annihilate any independence, any free spirit, any defiance. That's what he wanted – annihilation.'

John's heart clenched, he heard the pain, the panic even in Sherlock's words – heard the young boy in him terrified of his own father. He caressed Sherlock's fingers, but Sherlock was lost in the past and his breathing became fitful as he lived through those memories.

When he started to speak again it was almost inaudible at first, 'I always told myself that it was simple, that I only had to detach myself from the hurt, those feelings, the pain. And I succeeded. I could endure his beatings and I could endure his humiliation. I learned to negate my feelings. I learned not to say a word. I learned not to flinch. Instead I learned to stare back at him, defiantly. And when I did that he would become even more enraged – _Don't just stare at me – you worthless scum! React! React to me_!' Sherlock had grown louder and louder and now his voice was hard, like steel, he sounded so alien, all warmth had gone and John knew that he was hearing his father's voice.

He gathered Sherlock in his arms, but Sherlock was like ice, trapped in his memories. John's fingers trailed along Sherlock's neck and he flinched at the touch.

'Love, it's me. Your father is not here. He cannot harm you. You are with me. You are home.' Sherlock seemed to wake as from a dream and eagerly responded to John's embrace. He sought John's lips and kissed him, seeking reassurance and warmth. John softly stroked over Sherlock's dishevelled curls and murmured against them, 'What about your brother? What about Mycroft? Couldn't he have helped? You know, you two building a front?'

Sherlock took a moment to answer, searching his mind for those memories, 'He was never there,' he sounded amazed as if only now he was able to make the connection, 'Father was clever, he only started beating me after Mycroft had gone to boarding school, university later. As far as I know father never beat him. It was always me,' he sighed, 'No, Mycroft was no help. I guess that makes part of the resentment we carry around, something that always stands between us. Old scores. This and the fact that he is the spitting image of our father, whereas I am _Mummy's boy_. Mummy was the one causing father trouble, in fact - having affairs - but I was the scapegoat - let's call it _punishment by proxy_ ,' he spat out those last words and John instinctively tightened his grip on him.

He knew better than to tell Sherlock that this was over now, gone, belonging to the past. No need to tell him that he was a grown man now and that nobody could harm him like his father had done. He knew that Sherlock was of course intelligent enough to have devised strategies of his own to cope with this childhood trauma. But even Sherlock's brilliant mind couldn't dominate his own subconsciousness, the power of his will could not stop nightmares and fleeting memories of the past invading his dreams. He clearly saw why Sherlock sometimes dreaded sleep.

But he also realized that his sleeping patterns had become somewhat more regular lately, ever since they had started sleeping together in one room, in one bed. Suddenly he saw this DIY-project of Sherlock's in quite a different light. Sherlock must have reached the same conclusion because he softly said, 'John, you are the reason why I sleep better now. I can be sure that you are with me, when I wake and it helps me that you are troubled, too. When I look at you I can see that it is possible to cope and to remain human. I'm so thankful for that.' He kissed John, and it was a tender kiss, almost chaste, but it said so much about his feelings for him.

'I know that you believe that I don't care what other people think of me, but I do care, very much. I just don't allow myself to be ruled by feelings. I don't allow myself to be open, to be emotional when I'm among strangers. It's what _dealing_ with my father taught me. I know that I'm not normal, that there's someting wrong with me. But being with you I can see that showing emotions doesn't harm me, and that by being open and emotional I get so much back.' Sherlock's voice dropped another notch, 'John, you help me so much - you help me to become a better human being –'

'Sherlock, there was never anything wrong with you.' John whispered, 'Never! Yes, you can be very annoying and arrogant and a smartass,' that remark earned him a scoff, 'but you are the most human human being I have ever met. You are simply wonderful, and I love it when you let that mask of yours slip and those bloody bastards of emotions peek out –'

Sherlock softly chuckled, 'Thank you, John - I guess.'

John was glad to hear some of Sherlock's usual confidence in that retort, but he very much wanted to cover up those nightmarish images Sherlock had laid down before him, he wanted to divert Sherlock's attention from them, 'Sherlock, I don't know anything about your childhood. Would you tell me a little bit about it?' John wasn't sure at all if this was the right approach, 'Something – um – I don't know. Some happy memories, maybe?'

Sherlock seemed to contemplate this for a while and John thought he'd clammed up, but then he spoke, 'I suppose I was always happy when I could be on my own. I loved to roam the vast woods around our house – I pretended to be an explorer then, leading an expedition. I conducted little experiments, monitoring bird's nests or trailing badgers, see how far they roam. Sometimes I even was a pirate -' John laughed, seeing the image of a little curly-haired boy running around with a wooden sword in front of his mind's eye, 'I guess you were a wild little pirate.'

'Quite,' Sherlock conceded, his voice almost back to his normal velvety baritone. 'Mycroft always wanted to be a Red Coat capturing me, but he never once caught me. I was too quick for plump little Mycroft.' John couldn't help but guffaw at this image of a chubby Mycroft chasing the lithe black-haired pirate through the woods, having to give up eventually, desperately gasping for air.

'I guess playing and experimenting helped me to escape –' he sought John's hands in the darkness, 'I'm not a child anymore, not a pirate - I can't hide in the woods any longer.' He softly chuckled at the image, 'My life has changed when I found you, John. You are my escape now when I feel alone or dejected,' his grip suddenly tightened, becoming almost painful, 'John, promise me something,' Sherlock's voice was intense, pleading, devoid of all his usual smugness, arrogance or derision, 'John, never leave me. Please, John, promise that you will never leave me.'

His demand spoke of pure and blatant need and of love and John's heart went out to him – completely, 'I will never leave you, love,' he replied, 'I will always be with you.' And John meant it like he had never meant anything in his life before. He gathered Sherlock into his arms and held on to him, gently rocking him. It didn't feel strange - they were grown men after all – no, it was oddly soothing.

 

John quickly glanced over Sherlock's head at the window – the early hours of the night were slowly giving way to dawn. He felt calm and almost peaceful – lying here with the man he loved, comforting him, making sure he felt safe.

Only then did he realize what Sherlock had actually done - By opening himself so completely to John, by confessing his own haunting childhood memories Sherlock had managed to lead him out of his own desperation. That's what it was all about, wasn't it? – When you love someone – You go out of your way to help him, you make a fool of yourself or in Sherlock's case you are utterly and uncharacteristically emotional and open and divulge painful secrets. Secrets you have carefully kept hidden all your life.

John smiled, 'Sherlock, you are truly amazing,' he whispered, but no answer came. When John peered down at him in the dim light of the dawning day he saw that Sherlock had finally fallen asleep, his face buried in the crook of John's neck.

John smiled and letting out one more calming breath he settled back into the cushions and closed his eyes.


	4. Misunderstandings - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new case and a new client – And Sherlock and John will realize that there are some things they will eventually have to talk about …
> 
> Enjoy reading!

The doorbell rang – once – maximum pressure.

'Client!' Sherlock exclaimed and rushed to exchange his blue dressing gown against the black suit jacket. John smirked and grabbed his mug of lukewarm tea. After a few seconds the now smartly dressed Sherlock bounded down the stairs leaving John to walk from the kitchen to the living room. With a sigh he settled in his favourite chair ready to listen to whatever outrageous troubles, outlandish theories or simple worries would be presented to them in a moment.

He heard two people treading up the stairs and then Sherlock's self-assured baritone, 'In here! Take a seat and tell us why you're here. Please be as concise and quick as possible! No need to be boring!'

Between shedding his dressing gown and opening the door Sherlock had adopted his usual brisk and rather cold, but very professional, consulting detective persona. John had seen this happen so often in the past eighteen months that it didn't take him aback him anymore. Knowing that Sherlock could be one of the most adorable people when he felt like it, he still marvelled at the fact that Sherlock could keep his voice entirely devoid of emotions or warmth when he was working. What troubled him from time to time was that this coldness could seep into their private realm when Sherlock hadn't quite shut off that professional version of himself.

John looked up when a woman tentatively entered the room, trailing a few paces behind Sherlock. She looked very shy and nervous, her eyes darted nervously across the room, and her fingers were constantly twiddling with the shoulder strap of her bag. She was in her early thirties, petite and not what you would call a conventional beauty. Her shoulder length brunette hair was shiny and sleek, her fair skin unblemished and probably the most striking feature about her were her green eyes. She was by no standard a looker – a term John and his pub mates had often used to classify women - But something in her face and especially in her sad eyes tugged at John's heart and he got up to greet her.

'Hello there, my name is John Watson. You've met Sherlock Holmes?' she acknowledged this with a nod. 'Do sit down, please!' he smiled at her in an attempt to diffuse her nervousness. The woman sat down on the very edge of the sofa, prepared to get up quickly should the need arise. She glanced around their sitting room, taking in what was a distinctly male atmosphere.

John took the opportunity to aim a stare at Sherlock, eyebrows raised, clearly expressing – _Do try to be gentle!_

Sherlock frowned back – _I know what I'm doing!_

Nevertheless John decided to create a more relaxed atmosphere and set out to ask the most basic questions one usually asked when meeting someone for the first time – questions that Sherlock on the other hand often deemed boring or unnecessary. So John was the one to ask for her name, and where she came from.

'Oh, right? - My name is Alice Stephenson? I'm from out of town - Luton?'

Her voice was trembling and she had the habit of raising her voice at the end of each utterance, making it sound like a question. Sherlock scoffed – this was something he found particularly annoying. She looked up at Sherlock, she'd noticed his scoff – _Not so dim after all_ – and he grimaced back at her. He would have said he had smiled, but he couldn't fool John.

Alice stopped twiddling with her bag and started nervously kneading her hands instead. John noticed the furrow between Sherlock's brows deepen and quickly chimed in again before he could open his mouth and spill out a sarcastic or hurting remark.

'Alice, why are you here? How can we help you?' He aimed an open smile at her, meant to set her at ease. She shyly smiled back and focused on John Watson who obviously was the more accessible of the two. She drew a deep breath and straightened her back.

'It's because of my best friends. They have vanished. They told me they were going to be away for the weekend and gave me their house keys to feed the cats. That was last Friday – almost a week ago!' Her barely upheld resolve and courage deflated and she sobbed, covering her mouth with her hands. John handed her a box of tissues. 'Thank you,' she noisily blew her nose. That and the sobbing caused the ever-impatient Sherlock to raise an eyebrow.

'Well, I did as I was told. I watered the flowers, I fed the cats. But when they didn't come back on Monday and not on Tuesday I started to worry.' She fixed the stare of her green eyes on John, pleading. 'You _must_ help me, I'm sure something awful has happened to them.'

'Certainly!' Sherlock intercepted, 'But why come here, why not go to the police? This sounds like a straightforward double murder to me –'

'Sherlock!' John snapped - Sherlock reacted to this admonition with a slight curling of the corners of his mouth.

'The police wouldn't tell me anything. They said they were keeping their eyes open, but since there are no signs of anything unlawful in the house? – They simply told me to wait, told me that they had probably just prolonged their holidays? But my friends would've told me? Don't you think?'

_Oh, God – she's doing it again! It's so annoying. I can't concentrate!_

'What makes you so sure that something terrible happened to them?' John gently enquired. 'Because of the cats? They would never leave their cats? They were like children for them? They would never leave them behind?'

_There is something about her – Something - She reminds me of somebody, but I can't quite grasp it … – I hope Sherlock and I will be able to help her, but he is quite hostile, I'm not even sure he will take the case, he seems so adverse. He's shunning even the most perfunctory social graces – What's wrong with him?_

John glanced at Sherlock who was pacing the room apparently paying no attention to Alice at all. _\- Focus – Focus – Forget her annoying habit – just forget it –_ Sherlock abruptly stopped pacing and asked her, 'What were the exact words of your friends before they left?'

And Alice took this as an incentive to pour out all the details, all that she could remember, everything that seemed important to her.

John tried to focus on Alice and let all the information wash over him – no need to listen, he could be fairly sure that Sherlock registered every tiny detail – No, John very much wanted to give her the feeling that she was taken seriously, that it had been the right decision to come here and to ask for their help. And they would help her – John was going to make sure of that. He didn't know what it was, but he felt a kind of bond with her. Something he would not have been able to explain when asked.

Sherlock had stopped asking and moving about the room. In fact he stood quite still _\- Why is he staring at her with that inane look? Why? Why is he so interested in her? –_ John felt Sherlock's inquisitive stare and turned to answer it with a small smile. Sherlock didn't respond and knitted his brows – he looked genuinely bewildered.

It was John's turn to raise an eyebrow inquisitively _\- What's the matter, love? Why do you look so confused? There's nothing wrong -_ But Sherlock looked away and didn't react to John's unspoken enquiry.

 

x

 

Another five minutes later John walked Alice down the stairs and Sherlock remained on the landing. He didn't know why he remained there instead of returning to the living room, to his laptop, out of earshot. Something rooted him to the very spot he was standing on and he followed the sounds of Alice and John's voices floating down to the hall and onwards to the front door.

'I'm sure everything will be alright, we will find them. Don't worry, Alice.'

'Thank you so much John – I am really desperate. What am I going to do when they-' a sob and something incomprehensible in John's voice – said soothingly, his voice full of warmth. Hearing John's voice, his gentleness aimed at this woman, made Sherlock's skin tingle and the palms of his hands started to moisten. A ripple of an emotion washed over Sherlock – he couldn't place it though, not yet _\- Fear? Why should I feel fear? –_

He had to strain to make out what they were mumbling and for a while he only heard Alice's sniveling _– Oh, for God's sakes. That won't help! –_ and John's comforting mutterings. Suddenly her words became distinguishable again and her voice carried clearly up to where Sherlock was standing.

'Thank you so much, John. And Sherlock, too. I was just wondering –' For a moment Sherlock couldn't hear anything _– What are they doing? –_ But then the sound of Alice's voice floated up to him again.

'This is a bit awkward, really. But can I ask you something? Something private?' Sherlock's head started spinning _\- Focus! -_ and he strained his ears.

'I know that it's none of my business, it's just – um – this flat? Are you two living here - together - or is it just - um - Sherlock's office?' Involuntarily Sherlock made a step towards the stairs – a loud creak in the floorboards _– Damn it! –_ But then he heard John softly chuckling, 'No, no. That's alright. You can ask and I can tell you. This is not an office. We live here, actually – the two of us!'

'Oh!' a short pause, 'And you are -?' she hesitated again.

'Flatmates,' a noisy clearing of his throat, 'We are flatmates.'

Sherlock felt something flutter inside his chest, something that wanted to get out, to scream, to rant, to put everything right, but he couldn't let it. He put his hands to his face in an attempt to calm down as if this physical contact could alleviate the storm suddenly raging within him. His fluttering fingers presenting the only outward sign of his inner turmoil.

_Flatmates? Why does he say that? We are so much more – why does he not admit to that? Why does he repudiate what we are? Why?_

He heard John say a final goodbye to Alice before he came noisily bounding up the stairs, 'Sherlock, I'm just going out and get some shopping done – you don't need me, do you?

_I do, I do – John, why did you not tell her?_

John stepped into the living room where Sherlock was sitting at the desk now, facing the windows, his face hidden from John.

'Sherlock? Did you hear me?'

'Yes,' Sherlock's voice sounded almost casual, but John picked up a note that was out of tune, 'Everything alright?'

'Yes, of course. What should be wrong?'

'I don't know, you just sound a bit - annoyed,'

'Oh, for God's sakes. Please stop analysing me and apply your skills to other, more needy people,' Sherlock snapped, his voice cold and cutting.

John was startled by this outbreak _– Where did that come from? –_ He dipped his chin in his customary gesture of defiance and tried to stay calm.

'Fine - You've made it more than clear that you don't need me now. I'm off then.'

He sounded annoyed and hurt and Sherlock flinched. John thought for a second about walking up to Sherlock, to touch him and to kiss him goodbye, but when he looked at his unyielding back he felt his pride holding him back and decided against it. Instead he turned on his heels and left.

Sherlock stiffened when he realized that John had really gone without a word, a touch or a kiss. He screwed his eyes shut and let his head sink into his hands. After a moment his head snapped up and he almost toppled over the chair in his desperation to get to the window as quickly as possible. He wanted to see John, catch him when he left the house. He drew the curtains aside and peered down.

John was just leaving 221b. He let the front door fall shut and then he shouted something and waved before he broke into a run. Sherlock frowned and let his eyes trail ahead of John, up the length of Baker Street to see where he was running to. His heart clenched when he saw Alice Stephenson at the end of the road. She turned to wait for John. They exchanged a few words and continued walking together.

Sherlock leaned his forehead against the window pane – his head was swimming with dozens of thoughts and images and fears.

And the worst of all, the wildest and the most unthinkable of all were _\- He won't tell others about us – He doesn't really want me – I'm going to lose him –_


	5. Misunderstandings - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is tormented by jealousy and John declares his love ...

John softly treaded down the stairs and up to the front door of 221b - _This has to stop. I don't know how long I will be able to take this kind of childish bickering and bitching – What the hell was wrong with him?_ The black wooden door opened with a creak and John stepped out into the bright afternoon. He looked up and down the street and yes, there she was, right at the end of Baker Street.

'Alice!' he shouted, 'Wait!' The woman turned around, surprised that somebody should scream her name, here in London. She squinted and when she recognized who'd called, her face lit up. She waved cheerfully at John who broke into a run to catch up with her.

'Alice - thanks for waiting!' John was slightly panting from the exertion of the short run, 'I was just going out to do some shopping and I saw you. I - I… was wondering if you'd like to go for a coffee? Sort of rounding up your stay in London?'

'I'd love to!' She sounded pleasantly surprised – all her earlier awkwardness gone, 'My train doesn't leave before six. So - yes, I do have a bit of time on my hands.'

'Wonderful! Would you like me to show you around a bit? We could walk to a nice tearoom not too far from here.'

'Are you sure? I mean, you certainly have lots of other things to do – and doesn't Sherlock need your help?'

'No!I'm positive he'll manage fine without me. And the shopping can definitely wait. Where were we?' John lightly touched Alice's elbow, 'Ah, yes – tearoom!' and he gently steered her in the direction of the main road.

 

x

 

Sherlock watched them from his vantage point. His forehead rested on the window pane, his fingers were nervously kneading the curtains, repeatedly forming neat little creases before releasing the flimsy fabric again. Seeing them talking animatedly felt like needles pricking his heart and he flinched when he saw John touching her.

He let out a soft hissing noise when they made to walk away. Unwilling to let go of the pain he remained where he was and watched until John and Alice were out of sight. Even when the two of them had turned the corner onto the main road and had long gone, he could not move away from the window as if stubbornly remaining there without acknowledging that they had disappeared would miraculously bring his John back to him. Leaving this vantage point would be admitting defeat, would mean giving in - And he had no intention of doing that.

He was incredulous about the intensity of the pain he felt, his whole body feeling cold and hot – dizzy and numb – a daze. He was aware of the technical term for what he felt, of course he was – it was gut-wrenching, paralysing jealousy. He was experiencing it for the first time in his life. One of the many firsts of the last weeks – and he loathed it with all his heart. Suddenly he realised the dynamic behind this particular emotion and behind all emotions that love was made of and he saw how this passion could lead people astray, could make them hurt loved ones - or even more.

He had lashed out at John, had been cutting. With words – that was his weapon of choice - and it had only been John's calmness that had prevented worse. Understanding what was wrong with him didn't change one jot of how he felt, though, and so he had no choice but to stay where he was.

Staring down onto Baker Street where life went on as if nothing had happened. The fingers of his left hand were fluttering nervously and without noticing he was softly tapping his forehead against the window pane in a steady rhythm.

 

x

 

John glanced at Alice as they were walking towards the little tearoom. She was chattering almost constantly, not requiring much input from John.

_She reminds me of Clara, that's what it is – her sad eyes, the way she slightly angles her head when she looks at me from under her dark lashes. She's got lovely green eyes, just like Clara's. And she seems so vulnerable, so much in need of reassurance, so much in need of a strong arm protecting her - Of course that can't be me, I'm just saying - But there's certainly no harm in having a coffee, is there?_

__'In here, Alice,' John held open the glass door of a little tearoom not too far away from Baker Street. John loved coming here as it was very cosy, the off-white walls full of pale watercolours and the counter laden with delicious homemade tartes, creamy meringue pies, colourful cupcakes and chocolate-studded biscuits. The smell of freshly-brewed coffee, strong tea and of sweet, creamy temptations was almost overpowering.

John nodded a greeting to the other guests and steered Alice towards the back to a small table for two. He helped her shed her coat, 'What about something sweet with your coffee? My treat.'

_That would be nice for a change - usually when we come here I'm the one to indulge my sweet tooth and Sherlock's the one to fiddle with his phone._

'Lovely! – Yes, I will, actually! I think I'll have one of those chocolate cupcakes and a coffee. Thank you, John.'

John turned away from her to get their order while Alice settled back on her chair looking very pleased with herself. He walked up to the counter of the little tearoom where a young woman was busy refilling the Italian coffee maker, 'Hiya Liz.'

Liz, the owner of the tearoom, turned around, 'Hiya John.' To free her hands she put the tin with the coffee beans down on the counter before she wiped her hands on her pale blue apron.

'Haven't seen you in a while - How's Sherlock? Still adverse to sweets? You know I'm a bit cross with him because he never eats any of my lovingly baked cakes.'

'He's fine, thank you. Please don't worry – You shouldn't take anything he does or says personal. Believe me, that's by far the best way to deal with it.'

Liz frowned, she had picked up something from John's tone of voice, but since she deemed it none of her business she just shrugged, 'It takes all sorts, I guess. More for you, then! But give him my love, will you!'

'I will. Thank you Liz,' he smiled warmly at her, she was a lovely young woman and a fabulous baker on top of that. Her homemade jams were a marvel, too, and they had been the enticement to bring John here originally. Sherlock's discovery, actually.

Liz smiled back at John, 'By the way - I'm so chuffed for you two!' John raised an eyebrow inquisitively, 'Another two gorgeous specimens lost for all the lonely ladies out there. Ah - Why does it always have to be the handsome ones!' She winked at John, 'What can I get you, love?'

'Two coffees, one chocolate cupcake and one apple pie, please.'

'Won't be a minute, love,' Liz turned and set out to get everything ready leaving John no option but to walk back to Alice.

Placing the order had actually saved John from having to reply to Liz's congratulations directly. John wasn't sure how to take her remarks. _Chuffed? - For you two?_ They hadn't told anybody about their relationship yet and had been fairly restrained in displaying their love publicly. Well, apart from holding hands when they walked home late at night – and once or twice they might have slipped into a dark alley to kiss each other senseless like hormone-driven teenagers.

Fond memories - and John chuckled. Apparently, they hadn't been restrained enough if they were so obvious to the people around them.

John wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that.

 

x

 

Alice was beginning to feel at ease with John Watson and had almost forgotten the tragedy that had brought her to London. They talked effortlessly and she told him a bit about her work and her interests while he listened politely. He hadn't been very forthcoming about his personal life, but then they'd only known each other for roughly an hour. She'd crack his reluctance eventually. There was something that puzzled her, though, and she was determined to come back to it.

'That was lovely! Thank you so much for inviting me,' Alice sighed and settled back contently on her chair.

'Glad you liked it. Sherlock's never one to enjoy food, so I always end up eating my cake alone with him glaring at me,' said with a smile meant to take the sting from his words.

Alice's answering smile seemed a bit strained as if the mention of Sherlock had taken away the lightness of the moment. She'd experienced Sherlock as a truly intimidating man this afternoon. His overly sharp intelligence clearly apparent in those piercing eyes of his - how those eyes looked right through you! He certainly didn't suffer fools gladly and she feared that the impression she'd made on him had not been a very memorable one. Her criteria for choosing him had been based solely on his recent success displayed on the net and in the papers. Let's be honest, everybody knew he was the best.

Alice tried to focus on John again and coughed in an attempt to cover her diffidence conjured by her thoughts of Sherlock. 'I really think it was the right decision to come to you. I feel so much better already. Maybe I overreacted a bit – maybe I should have waited a bit longer,' Alice noticed how she slipped between confidence and doubt in one sentence. It troubled her, she didn't want to come across as weak, although she sensed that John might actually respond to just that - and somehow she liked this thought.

John smiled at her, 'Don't worry. I'm sure, Sherlock will be able to help you. And I will do my very best as well,' he added as an afterthought.

'John, can I ask you something?' She appeared nervous all of a sudden, glancing at him from under her lashes. A look she knew affected the gallant in every man. She couldn't remember how often she had used this look to her advantage before - playing the coy and blushing maiden.

'Of course, go ahead,' John nodded encouragingly.

'You and Sherlock. Don't get me wrong, please. You said you were just flatmates, right? – So there's no more to it, is there? You are just living together, are you? I mean – um – as friends?'

John felt ill at ease all of a sudden and shifted in his chair, he'd detected so many nuances in her voice - curiousity, but also hope and eagerness. And - which added to John's unease - scheming. John dipped his chin – he didn't know what to say – Should he reveal the truth now and drag their relationship out into the open – or should he take the coward's way out and remain in the closet. _Oh, my goodness_ \- He winced inwardly at the bad pun. He cleared his throat and when he started to speak he hadn't decided yet which way to choose.

'You know Alice, that's a bit difficult to explain.'

She arched her brows indicating her interest in his explanation.

'Until a few weeks ago we were just flatmates. That's true. And he was - is my best friend. This might be a bit hard to believe - I mean, you've seen him, he is not exactly the easiest person to live with – His experiments are legend and he manages to clutter the whole flat with his science equipment in a matter of hours. Leaves it to me to clean up behind him, of course. He's a keen violinist, preferably in the middle of the night and when he gets bored he might do very dangerous things indeed – '

John paused for a moment, lost in thought, and when he continued his eyes gleamed, 'But he is the most brilliant and clever man I have ever met. He could tell you your whole life story just by observing you - And, I mean, just look at him! He's beautiful!'

He paused again, focusing, and directly addressing Alice and her nosy enquiry he said, 'And to tell you the truth, Alice, I love him.'

There! – He'd said it – openly – to a virtual stranger – and it hadn't hurt. The world hadn't stopped turning and Alice wasn't looking at him any differently. No, that wasn't true. She looked at him differently, he saw disappointment flicker across her face, but it was gone in an instant – and, to be honest, he profoundly and utterly didn't care.

'Oh,' she said looking down on her empty plate.

John didn't pay her reaction much heed, his thoughts were drawn back to Sherlock - like a strong pull, a force of nature. There it was - the image of his friend and lover, alone in the flat - and suddenly he didn't know anymore why he had been cross with him. Suddenly he only felt longing in his heart, the need to be near him, to talk to him, to touch him, to kiss him.

He got up quickly, almost toppling over the little table, his sudden movements making everything rattle.

'Alice, I really need to be going. We will get back to you soon. Thank you!' and he kissed her on the cheek before hurrying out of the tearoom. He left behind a fairly befuddled Alice and a beaming Liz who had followed their little exchange attentively.

 

x

 

Sherlock saw John running down the street towards him, towards their home. He lifted his head, trying to focus.

_He's coming back – back to me_

 

x

 

John shed his black jacket and let it fall carelessly on the sofa. Sherlock hadn't turned when he'd entered the room so John quickly walked up to him. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's narrow waist and held on tight wanting to feel Sherlock's body, his warmth. His head slowly sank on his back. Closing his eyes Sherlock gave in to the pleasure of John's touch and relief flooded him.

'John. Where have you been?' his voice was low and raw, a witness of his inner turmoil.

'I've been out. I had a coffee with Alice and then –'

Sherlock peeled away John's arms and broke contact. He ruffled his hair in a gesture indicating desperation and lack of understanding. 'Why, John? What is it about this woman? Why did you have to go and have coffee with her? What made you?' he started pacing to and forth in his agitation, relentlessly. 'Why are you interested in her at all? You should have seen yourself - You looked at her like some _inane lovesick puppy_.'

He ceased pacing and peered at John as if the answer to that tormenting enquiry could be read in his face.

'Sherlock, I didn't –' John sighed. He was surprised by the vehemence of Sherlock's words, by his feelings. But how could he have assumed for one second that the most observant man in the world wouldn't have noticed his however fleeting interest in somebody else? Whatever the reasons were for that interest, but Sherlock had sensed a connection, a something between Alice and him - And it was truly tormenting him.

'Okay, Sherlock. You are right -' the look Sherlock shot him could only be described as pained and his ice blue eyes were liquid with tears he desperately tried to hold back.

John's heart clenched – he'd never seen Sherlock cry before - and he hastened to add, 'You are right to a certain extent. But I was certainly no love sick puppy. No! That's a bit harsh - nothing like that. How could there be? I'm really not interested – But-'

Sherlock flinched and one single tear fell from his eyes, coursing down his cheek. John closed the gap between them and gently wiped away the single tear. 'She just seemed so fragile, so weak.' He forced Sherlock to look down into his eyes, he had every intention of getting this right, of making it clear why he'd reacted like that - for himself as much as for Sherlock.

'I think it was because she reminded me of Clara, Harry's ex.' Sherlock blinked, bewildered, and some more tears streamed down his pale cheeks. 'You know I always liked Clara – in a platonic kind of way – and I always felt that I'd failed her, that I should have helped her when everything went downhill with Harry and her drinking. But I couldn't. I wasn't there – I was busy invading Afghanistan,' he laughed mirthlessly.

'And when I was back I had so many problems of my own and Clara and Harry had broken up and I still wasn't able to help her. Maybe that's why Alice appealed to me in a way. Maybe I just felt that I could help this time. Maybe I just wanted to be strong for her – Maybe I just wanted to be the one who _does_ , the one who exudes confidence, the one who impresses - for once.'

'But you are ..'

'No, I'm not! I couldn't help Clara. I couldn't help Harry. And now? That's the problem, really – _I_ can't help - But _you_ can! When we deal with people I am just your sidekick and you are the strongest, the cleverest, the quickest, the most brilliant, the …– Oh, I don't know…' Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John could clearly see his mind processing what he'd just heard, the cogs turning, trying to distinguish the facts from the feelings, trying to understand. John went on because he wanted him to see, 'Sherlock, you told me more than once that I am not as clever as you – You sometimes let others – _me_ – feel that we are inadequate. Maybe that's why I wanted to show Alice that I could help -'

'But I don't mean to. I – I … don't always think about the consequences when I say something to you, John. It's not out of spite, never out of spite! Please believe me!' He paused, biting his lip, 'I had no idea that you feel this way – I had no clue that I make you feel inadequate. You always seem so strong - I'm sorry - Please forgive me, love.'

John draped his hand gently around Sherlock's neck and let his fingers play with the mass of curls there. Their eyes met and John could see the sadness and the hurt in those ice blue jewels. He nodded and after a moment he gently guided Sherlock's head down and kissed him. Sherlock leaned into this tender kiss, elated and thankful.

But Sherlock was so confused by this _Alice business_ and surprised by the intensity of his feelings – this blasted jealousy - this hateful sense of betrayal. Although he could see what had made John act the way he had, there was still something that hurt him, nagged him and he needed to know.

'John, why didn't you tell her what we really are?' he whispered against John's ear.

'What do you mean?' John broke their embrace and looked at Sherlock, inquisitively.

'Down in the hall when you said goodbye I overheard you saying that we were flatmates, just flatmates. Why didn't you -?'

'Sherlock, is that what brought this all on?' John sighed with relief, 'Love, I didn't tell her because you don't tell every bloody stranger about your love life. It's something you keep private. In fact, we haven't told anybody yet, have we? Not even Mycroft or Mrs Hudson, although I'm fairly sure they know.'

Sherlock snorted - _oh, yes - they's probably knew_ -

'Even Liz from the tearoom has picked it up and congratulated me on the gorgeous man I can call my own,' that earned him a lopsided smile of the variety _heartwarming_ , 'But, Sherlock, tell me - why should I have told Alice – a client - of all people?'

'I don't know. I thought you didn't want to tell her because you were ashamed of me, of us, of what we are,' he sounded innocent, sweet, yet so desperate for reassurance.

John wanted him to say it first, though, ' _What_ are we, Sherlock?' teasing him, 'I want you to tell me.'

Sherlock had obviously regained some of his usual confidence because he lowered his voice to a dangerous level, 'We are friends,' a kiss on the neck, 'lovers,' softly brushing up to the jaw, 'partners' nibbling John's bottom lip, 'a couple,' kissing his soft lips, '– And you are my life, John.'

John cupped his face, 'You are bloody right!' He kissed him back, gently, 'and also terribly wrong.' Confusion clouded Sherlock's feline features and John chuckled, 'Bloody _right_ : We are friends, lovers, partners, a couple,' a long, deep kiss, 'And bloody wrong: I am not ashamed, not of you, not of us, of nothing and I did tell her – in Liz's tearoom. Alice asked me again and I told her then - openly and loudly - that I love you and everybody who'd cared to listen heard it. I think that counts as going public.'

Sherlock beamed and without thinking what it would mean for them he blurted out, 'When will we tell the others - What do you think, John?'

John chuckled, his eagerness was very endearing - and very sexy, 'Whenever you want, love. But let's not worry about that now.'

John opened two buttons of Sherlock's shirt and slid a hand inside to caress the smooth expanse of skin. Sherlock's eyes fluttered close and he drew in a sharp breath. He leaned down to cover John's mouth with his own, their tongues gliding against each other, exploring, preparing for more. Impatiently Sherlock tugged at the hem of John's jumper and John took this is a sign to shed it. Opening the rest of the shirt buttons and pulling it off over Sherlock's shoulders was one. Their mouths met again and they kissed, hungrily, willing to forget everything that had been.

'Bedroom?' Sherlock panted.

'Definitely!'


	6. How to tell the others? Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first crisis behind them – the next challenge ahead: How to tell the others? This is the first part dealing with Mrs Hudson walking in on them and an interesting way to make their relationship public among the Yarders.
> 
> Note: The Purple Shirt of Sex refers to a fansite introduced in chapter 2 which is - apparently - run by someone at the Yard ...
> 
> I hope all pseuds are self-explanatory? If not, just tell me and I will explain them in the next chapter…

**Mrs Hudson**

**  
**

'Could you go any lower?' John's husky voice, 'No, I mean lower than that – breathtakingly, amazingly low – Deep, deep down,' John's soft chuckle, 'Yes, that's it,' John's throaty moan, 'Sherlock, you really don't know what you're doing to me.'

Mrs Hudson's hand stopped midway and hovered in the dusty air somewhere between the living room door and her silk-clad bosom, her eyebrows raised in an astonished frown, her lips pursed. She had come upstairs to her boys to bring them a small parcel delivered to 221b this morning when John and Sherlock had been out _chasing criminals_ , as she liked to call it when confiding in Mr Chatterjee. She'd had to sign for the smallish parcel and therefore deemed it important.

Standing on the landing she was fairly rooted to the spot, unsure whether it was wise to open the living room door which was slightly ajar. As it was quiet now she involuntarily made a step towards the door in an attempt to hear more – but there was only silence, sparsely punctuated with a low whispering – amazingly this proved to be even more disconcerting than John's words had been. What were they doing? Not that she would be surprised by much, but she preferred not to be witness of anything indecent. She wasn't prudish – _Heaven, no!_ – But she was a strong believer in personal space and dignity.

And to walk in on Sherlock and John doing whatever they were doing? – In their _own_ living room? – Mrs Hudson had almost made up her mind and was about to turn on her heels when she heard a loud guffaw and John's astonished exclamation, 'How can you do this? That's fantastic! Can you do it louder?'

'Of course, I can. Child's play!'

Mrs Hudson frowned – What were they on about? – She pricked her ears and heard Sherlock's voice taking on the lowest possible cadence, a rich velvety baritone – _Oh, he had a lovely voice, Sherlock!_ – declaring loud and clear, 'I love you, John.'

A little yelp of joy escaped Mrs Hudson's mouth and she clasped her hands in front of her face. She closed her eyes and sent a short and silent thank-you-prayer heavenwards. Pushing aside all noble thoughts of personal space and dignity she stormed into the living room – and stopped dead at what she saw before her.

John was sitting on Sherlock's favourite chair with Sherlock straddling him. John's hands were roaming underneath Sherlock's shirt which was ridden up his back and partially unbuttoned. John's jumper had already gone the way of all lover's clothes, it lay discarded on the floor. Sherlock's hands were buried in John's hair and they were engaged in passionate kissing.

Mrs Hudson couldn't help but smile at the sight of her boys. John suddenly opened his eyes because he had felt a change of atmosphere in the room.

'Sherlock,' he mumbled against Sherlock's lips which were still eagerly kissing him.

'Hmm?' 'Sherlock – Mrs Hudson.'

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he quickly got up, his shirt falling open to reveal his naked torso. In an attempt at dignity he swiftly brushed through his curls and wiped over his mouth to cover his kiss-swollen lips. John cleared his throat and inconspicuously grabbed the Union Jack cushion to cover his midsection.

When their landlady saw their embarrassment she half-heartedly covered her eyes with her fingers, but she was barely able to hide her joy and exhilaration.

'Mrs Hudson!' Sherlock said, his voice indignant, deeply embarrassed to be caught in a situation like that, fumbling with his shirt now, trying to get decent.

Unfazed by Sherlock's tone - after all, she managed to ignore his obnoxiousness most of the time - she walked up to Sherlock and pecked him on one flushed cheek. He was surprised to see her eyes glittering with tears and by the tenderness and love playing on her face. She nodded at Sherlock and without a word turned to John and patted him on the shoulder before she quickly turned and left the room.

John and Sherlock exchanged a glance, but Sherlock shrugged, he didn't know what to make of it. To be honest he would have expected a gust of advice or enquiries, admonitions or just plain friendly chatter. But never this – silence and tears. John raised his eyebrows in the general direction of the hall and Sherlock nodded. Together they set out to follow Mrs Hudson.

 

x

 

'Mrs Hudson?' John gently opened the door to her flat. They wouldn't usually barge in on her like that, but she had left the door open obviously expecting them to come after her. Sherlock stepped into the cosy flat after John and softly closed the door behind them. They looked around and as there was no sign of her in the hall or the living room they followed the tell-tale tea-making noises and walked through the small hall into the kitchen.

'Come in, boys. I'm just making tea,' Mrs Hudson had apparently regained her poise and her bustling landlady persona was firmly back in place. She looked cheerful and buzzed around her kitchen like the impersonation of an overactive bumblebee.

John walked up to her and gathered her in an embrace, 'We're very sorry, Mrs Hudson.'

She looked up at him, her eyes gleaming, 'Whatever for, John?'

'That you had to see us like that – um – all indecent,' John had the grace to blush and glanced at Sherlock who was busy studying the dust patterns on the kitchen shelves.

'Don't you worry, dear! It's not as if I hadn't known!' Sherlock and John exchanged a surprised glance, 'You can't have expected me not to notice. I'm not senile, you know.'

'Nobody would dare suggest anything like that,' Sherlock helpfully intercepted and Mrs Hudson shot him a stern look, 'or dare think it,' he hastened to add.

'You know, there were so many strange going-ons in the last weeks,' she obviously felt the need to explain how she'd noticed, 'Sherlock turning into a DIY-fiend – installing a lab in John's bedroom. Where did John's bed go? Where did John go? And Sherlock all happy, no shootings of the wall and virtually no violin playing at half past one in the morning. I wouldn't say that the nights were therefore much quieter, but -'

A blush crept up John's neck in answer to that, he glanced at Sherlock whose pale cheeks were tinged with a lovely rosy colour, too. It was true, they had never been very concerned about the amount of noise they were producing – whether it was an experiment, violin practice or any other activities they engaged in. Still, hearing from your elderly landlady - who was in fact like an aunt or maybe even more for the two of them - that you had been overheard was indeed disturbing – to say the least.

Mrs Hudson noticed their unease and to diffuse some of the embarrassment she continued, 'And the biggest change of all was that I haven't heard one shout of BORED since you two are sharing whatever you are sharing …' she trailed off and busied herself with the tea pot and the mugs.

John and Sherlock exchanged a glance, memories chasing through their heads – memories causing them to smirk and it was up to Sherlock to bluntly ask, 'What do you say, Mrs Hudson, are you happy?'

Mrs Hudson put the milk jug she'd been busy filling down on the tray and walked over to them. She looked from John to Sherlock and from Sherlock to John, taking in their happy faces, their ease, their contentment and simply said, 'I'm over the moon, boys, over the moon! I couldn't have wished for anything better!'

She patted them both in a motherly fashion and turned to hide the tears which were welling up in her eyes again. Sherlock turned to John then, his face lit up with one of those lopsided smiles and leaning down he softly kissed him. He brushed his lips over John's cheeks and leaning his forehead against John's he whispered, 'I love you, John. I really do!' John's answer was a lingering kiss.

Sherlock finally turned away and picking up the tea tray he followed Mrs Hudson out of the kitchen into the living room. John chose to remain where he was for a moment or two longer – lost in thought. He couldn't quite believe how happy he was – how happy to be with Sherlock – a man as exciting as he was annoying – a _man_ , for God's sakes!

He chuckled and not for the first time he wondered what his life would have been like had he not met his old mate Mike Stamford on that day almost two years ago.

 

x

 

 

**Scotland Yard**

 

 **The Purple Shirt of Sex** : New story by **Abitnotgood** : _Revelations_ , Chapter 1:

 **Rated:** T

 **Summary:** Sherlock and John are high on adrenalin after an exciting murder hunt. Will they finally admit to their feelings? Or maybe more? Romance/Humour. Johnlock, obviously. Rating will probably go up for later chapters.

 

 

 

 **From** : PEteacher

 **To** : Seargantsdoitbetter

 **Subject** : New story – new member?

_Did you read the new story by Abitnotgood? New member apparently. First story._

_A bit lacking on the emotional side, but the characters are spot-on. Especially Sherlock._

_In fact one of the best descriptions of our sleuth I have read so far. Can't wait for the update._

 

 **From:** Seargantsdoitbetter

 **To:** PEteacher

 **Subject:** Re: New story – new member?

_It's a bit technical – if you ask me. Not enough 'you know what I mean'._

_I'd rather read a new fic by HolmesBabe, she really knows how to write smut._

_Not our favourite pairing of course - but still - heavenly, sticky, hot smut!_

 

 **From:** PEteacher

 **To:** Seargantsdoitbetter Subject: Re: Re: New story – new member?

_Yeah – you're right. Let's wait for the next chapter._

_Got your part for the blog done? YOU ARE LATE! - As per usual!_

_By the way – Did TRex manage to get any new pics?_

 

 **From:** TRex

 **To:** PEteacher, Seargantsdoitbetter, HolmesBabe

 **Subject** : NEW PICS!

_New Pics. Sherlock in all his purple glory. Got some nice ones of his favourite doctor, too._

_Any wishes? New programme finally uploaded – I could make some fantastic montages._

_Anybody interested?_

 

 

 **The Purple Shirt of Sex** : New chapter of _Revelations_ by **Abitnotgood** , Chapter 2:

 **Rated:** E

 **Summary:** Sherlock and John are high on adrenalin after an exciting murder hunt. Will they finally admit to their feelings? Or more? Romance/Humour. Johnlock, obviously.

 **Update:** Getting down to it/ Collaboration with **Jamforall**

 

 

 **From:** Seargantsdoitbetter

 **To:** PEteacher

 **Subject:** SMUT ;-D

_Now that is what I call a fantastic chapter! Good idea to collaborate._

_This Jamforall really knows how to get the juices flowing. I'd guess this chapter was mainly his/her handiwork. Oh, smutty smut - I love it._

_But who'd guess these two had it in them?_

_Scorching hot! I need to cool down – Off to take a shower – excuse me …_

 

 **From:** PEteacher

 **To:** Seargantsdoitbetter

 **Subject:** Re: SMUT ;-D

_Spare me the details. There's only so much that I want to know about Sherlock's erogenous zones. That's by far the most explicit chapter I have yet read on them._

_It reeks of inside knowledge, if you ask me. I mean, not the part about his - zones. No, there's so much that is so private, intimate … and not over the top-invented-crazy-stuff._

_It makes you wonder, it really does. Any clues who of our dear colleagues wrote that?_

_I don't really want to think about what that would mean– IF it was one of our colleagues…_

 

 **From:** HolmesBabe

 **To:** Seargantsdoitbetter

 **Subject:** Revelations

_This was exciting! To be honest - I'm not really a Johnlock shipper, I'm all for Sherlolly._

_But I like this fic – it's so cute and the characters are absolutely realistic and quite adorable._

_Any idea who's behind it?_

 

 **From:** Seargantsdoitbetter

 **To:** HolmesBabe

 **Subject** : Re: Revelations

_Yeah – our new talent on the site._

_Thanks for your fantastic artwork by the way! That was amazing – He looked so real! Shame he is such a freak – Take away the brain, leave me the body, that's what I'm saying!_

_As for who wrote Revelations – No clue, but the style is definitely different to anything we've had so far on the site. I mean – this writer really has a knack for technical terms and details._

_Although I'd bet the smutty parts were written by jamforall, cause they're quite different._

_Anyway, great collabo we have here!_

 

 

 **The Purple Shirt of Sex** : New chapter of _Revelations_ by **Abitnotgood** , Chapter 3:

 **Rated:** M

 **Summary:** Sherlock and John are high on adrenalin after an exciting murder hunt. Will they finally admit to their feelings? Or more? Romance/Humour. Johnlock, obviously.

 **Update:** Love/ Collaboration with **Jamforall** – Now complete!

 

 

 **From:** PEteacher

 **To:** Seargantsdoitbetter, HolmesBabe,TRex

 **Subject:** What the hell…?

_Just checking. Did y'all read the update of Revelations? Did I get that right? Did I get that ending right?_

_Sometimes I'm a bit slow on the uptake as far as relationships and the like are concerned - a bit dim-witted as they say._

_BUT: Are they a couple? I mean, not in the story, I mean FOR REAL? Is it that what they are telling us?_

_And I guess again here: Did these two crash our site?_

 

 **From:** Seargantsdoitbetter

 **To:** HolmesBabe,TRex, PEteacher

 **Subject:** Re: What the hell…?

_Yay - That's positive! Caught them making out in the small office ten minutes ago. Playing tongue twisters – if you catch my drift._

_No embarrassment on their part– no, going happily about their business._

_Which offers a few new prompts for all you avid writers – Here we go:_

_Domestic bliss – Bedsheet – Jam incidents – An experiment gone wrong - An exciting day at the office_

_All strictly Johnlock! Best entry wins a pint and a packet of crisps next pub Friday._

 

 **From:** PEteacher

 **To:** Seargantsdoitbetter, HolmesBabe,TRex

 **Subject:** Admin/Prompts

_An admin message for all members: Entries must be online Thursday the latest to make judging possible for Friday. Usual rules apply! Cheers!_

_And thank God they're finally out of the closet! I don't know about you, but I'm quite happy for them!_

 

 **From:** HolmesBabe

 **To:** PEteacher

 **Subject:** Re: Admin/Prompts

_Makes me a bit sad, really. Oh, I don't know what to think … We should all be happy for them, I guess?_

_Count me in for the 'jam incidents' - I've got some brilliant ideas for that._

_Oops, got to run. Corpses won't wait Sorry, bad taste ;-(_

_See you all on Friday!_


	7. How to tell the others? Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John dreads telling Harry the truth about his relationship with Sherlock because every meeting of these two had bordered on disaster ...

**Harry**

 

John was anxious.

For days now he was going through various possible scenarios and outcomes of this encounter. This blasted anxiousness had wormed its way into his heart because he firmly believed that it was one thing to come out to your landlady who had more or less pushed you into Sherlock's arms from day one, or to play a little prank on the colleagues at the Yard, but quite another to tell your family that you do in fact - despite your heterosexual past - love a man.

Your _only_ family that was - Your sister to be more precise - Your gay sister - Your gay sister who was quite a character - Your difficult, erratic and bigmouthed sister.

John had rarely taken any of his former girlfriends to meet Harry – for good reasons. Harry was highly judgemental, loud, unafraid and very protective of John. All in all this could prove an explosive combination. To top it off John had sided with Clara when they had been going through the divorce and they still had not found back to their easy and careless childhood ways. Thank God they were back on speaking terms at least.

After John had been invalided home from Afghanistan he had tried to be there for Harry, to support her in fighting her drinking problem. He had accompanied her to various AA groups, explained the destroying influence of the booze, as a brother as well as a doctor. Sometimes it had felt like talking to a stone wall. Deep down John knew she wanted his help, but when they were together one wrong remark sufficed and she'd explode.

To be honest John had tried, but there was only so much he had been able to offer. He had been depressed and unhappy and lonely then – these awful, terrifying times before Mike had introduced him to Sherlock and his life had started anew. Given that, it was no wonder that John wasn't looking forward to telling Harry about Sherlock.

To make matters worse every single time Sherlock and Harry had met this meeting had bordered on disaster. Sherlock had never been able to hold back on these occasions – asking her about her drinking, in fact deducing her whole drinking career from one look at her, basically tearing her life to shreds without noticing what this was doing to her. Harry, never one to miss a fight, had bit back like an angry bull terrier and sooner or later they had been at each other's throats with full force.

Sherlock had always managed to stay cold, detached, aloof, but Harry had been deeply hurt. Biting back with scathing remarks, trying to hurt in return, unaware that she would never be able to chink Sherlock's armour. John remembered that she had been very disappointed in him because he never once stood up to defend her, never took her side. Something which would have seemed natural to her - a brother defending his sister against an outsider. But he couldn't bring himself to do it because deep down inside he agreed with Sherlock.

He had called her three days ago and she had invited him round to her house to have dinner. It had been a shallow conversation - she had talked about her job, he had told her next to nothing about his life. About ten minutes into this meaningless conversation he took heart and hinted at a big change in his life and she claimed to be delighted.

 

x

 

John walked up gloomy Helmsfield Road past the terraced houses up to number 14 where Harry lived. The old brick houses were in a various states of decay and renovation or hovering somewhere in between. A few front doors were freshly painted, children's bikes in a front garden or some potted flowers adding a splash of colour to an otherwise rather bleak surrounding.

Number 14 was apparently undergoing minor changes at the moment. The front door had been freshly painted a gleaming black and the doorknocker had been polished to a shine. But the tiny front garden was full of builder's rubbish and looked neglected. The window panes of the bay window were dirty and revealed a rather empty, but bright living room.

John knocked twice and stepped back to wait. No answering footsteps could be heard, so he knocked again after some moments.

'Coming! Coming!' and the door was yanked open. Harry looked surprised, 'John, you're early. Didn't we say seven?'

'Glad to see you, too!' John said sarcastically and his heart sank, this wasn't off to a good start, 'And no, we said six and here I am.'

'Oh, never mind, never mind. Come in, come in – make yourself at home. I'll be with you in a minute,' she turned and stormed up the stairs to get changed, or so John assumed.

From what he had seen Harry looked tired, dark circles underneath her eyes, and she had obviously been painting something somewhere in the house, judging by the paint splatters all over her. She was the female version of John, the same sandy hair, cut fashionably short, the same bone structure. Obviously, she had a more female face and body, her outstanding features being rather fine eyes and a lovely mouth. But she wasn't what one would call a very feminine woman; she'd always been more of a tomboy.

John stepped into the cluttered, narrow hall and closed the door behind him. He peered around and decided to wait for Harry in the living room. It was sparsely, but tastefully furnished, and had apparently already undergone a makeover. He sat down on the cream-coloured sofa and waited.

 

x

 

'Johnny, sorry about that,' she vaguely gestured to the hall – leaving it up to John to decide whether she meant the state of the house or her cool welcome. John got up and they embraced.

John noticed how frail she felt underneath his touch and stepped back the better to look at her. 'You look good,' he said, 'a bit tired, but healthy and – um -'

'I'm off the booze, Johnny. If that's what you're getting at.'

'I wasn't –'

'You were and you have every right. I haven't touched one drop of alcohol since last month, forty-one days to be precise!'

'Harry, congratulations, that's great! I'm so happy for you!' and it was true, John couldn't be happier, it meant so much for Harry. He embraced her again and this time he was holding on to her, thankful and proud.

'But let's not talk about me, big brother. What about you? What's the meaningful change in your life?' her eyes gleamed with excitement and mischief; she was obviously expecting some salacious details from her brother's life. They sat down on the sofa, facing each other.

'Well, Harry. I've met someone.'

'Oh, lovely!' She clasped her hands in front of her face, 'I'm so glad! Who? Let me guess – She's a doctor! Have I met her? Is she pretty?'

'Not a doctor, no. Pretty? No! – Beautiful describes it better, I'd say, and yes you have met –'

'I have? Is it Jane? Are you back with Jane? That's wonderful, she's a lovely woman – a bit dull perhaps, a bit too goody-goody, but –'

'No, Harry! It's not Jane,' John was growing a bit annoyed what with her jumping to conclusions all the time, 'Let me finish, for God's sakes!'

She had the grace to look abashed and remained silent. But a smile played around her eyes – she was enjoying this.

'I was about to say that you have met _him_ ,' John paused, gauging her reactions. The smile left her face and Harry slumped back on the sofa, knitting her brows.

'What do you mean _him_? - _Him_? - Since when do you date men? Have you changed the sides? Has the big bad bug bitten you? Johnny, what are you on about? You don't just turn gay over night!' she was genuinely bewildered.

'It's not like that and it didn't happen overnight. But yes, I met a man – and we fell in love. He means everything to me, we're serious about it and I'm very happy,' her eyes lit up and she snatched him in an embrace, hugging tight.

'Oh, Johnny. That's lovely - I'm so happy for you!' she let go of him and looked him in the eyes, 'But a man, Johnny? Really? – Who is it?'

'Can't you guess?' She shook her head.

'It's Sherlock.'

Her mouth fell open in a very unappealing way, 'You – you can't be serious! What do you want with him? Sherlock! - He's a cold fish - He doesn't know what love is. He will only hurt you!' she snapped, 'John, please - you deserve so much better!'

'Harry, I know that you two had a very bad start, but you're wrong about him. He's not at all like that. He's a wonderful, warm-hearted man and he offers me so much –'

'Severed heads and body parts in the fridge, eyeballs in the microwave, getting shot at and getting decked out in explosives – I can see clearly what he _offers_ you. You risk your bloody life for this madman, this – this lunatic. Oh, Johnny, can't you see? He's dangerous, he's not normal. He's _damaged_. He will eat you alive and when he's bored he will drop you! Don't you see? - It can't last, Johnny!'

She had taken hold of his hand, but he snatched it away. How dare she talk like that? Who the hell was she to tell him what was good for him? To tell him that Sherlock wasn't a good man, damaged, not normal – how could she have the bloody nerve to say something like that?

'You don't know him - You don't know him _at all_ ,' he tried to stay calm, 'That's all I can say. I know what he's like and I know that I love him and that he's good for me - and I am good for him. And he loves me - That's all that matters.' He halted and slowly exhaled to calm down, 'Nobody in the world could be better for me - And if you can't accept us then …' he didn't finish the sentence, but they both realized in that split-second that they would have to find a way to each other here and now or they would go separate ways. The silence that filled the room was deafening, full of possibilities as well as unanswered questions.

'How come you love a man, so suddenly?' Harry asked after a while and she sounded truly amazed, yes - but it was a beginning – a tentative step towards understanding, 'A man like _him_ , for fuck's sake ..?'

'I don't know,' John honestly said, 'I don't think I could just love _any_ man, it's only him. He's so special to me. I felt that bond between us from the very beginning and I had to fight hard for him. He wasn't easy to get, you know,' Harry snorted and John had to smile himself, 'It took him a while to be open for love, but now he throws himself into it with all his mind and body, trying out …'

'Spare me the details!' Harry smirked and John glanced at her, she seemed to have relented a bit.

'Well, you know. You can't plan on the heart, Harry. You know that, don't you? It just happened and it's good.' He looked down on his hands and softly added, 'No, not good - it's bloody fantastic and I won't back down. Never.'

He sounded very determined and Harry glanced at him. She saw how he dipped his chin in that unique Johnny–gesture of defiance, she took in the way he leaned forward, away from her. And she began to understand. Moving closer she let her head sink on his shoulder. It was a tender gesture, reminiscent of the times when they had been very close - But it was so much more more than that, it was a peace offering.

'God knows I don't like him, Johnny. But I'm willing to give him a chance for your sake. Maybe one day in the far, far away future I can see what's so fantastic about him. But I can't guarantee that I will ever learn to feel at ease with him.'

She nuzzled a bit closer to John trying to strengthen their fragile bond, 'There is one thing I have to admit, though. He _is_ rather gorgeous, and I can see why you would find him attractive. But - definitely too much testosterone in the air for my liking …!'

John giggled and put his hand on Harry's which had come to rest on his knee. He squeezed it once, he could live with her response for the time being, it was more than he had expected.

'What about that dinner you promised? I'm starving.'

'Some things never change, Johnny-boy,' she sat up and snatched some leaflets from a side table, 'Your choice tonight - Chinese or Italian?'

'Italian. I never get that with Sherlock. He abhors tomatoes, something to do with pips or seeds and the colour – um – I don't know what exactly, to be honest …'

Harry sniggered, wiggling her eyebrows in that peculiar Harry-fashion to comment on that piece of information about her brother's domestic life, and grabbed the phone to place their order.

 

x

 

'How did it go, love?' Sherlock whispered when John slipped into their bed behind him. John snuggled up close to Sherlock's sleep-warm back and slipped his arms around him, 'Well, let me think -' he murmured against Sherlock's curls, 'She told me you were not normal, damaged, a cold fish and that you would throw me away once you'd get bored.'

'It went very well, then. I'm pleased!' Sherlock quipped and turned around to face John.

'Seriously, she basically called you a cold-hearted bastard, but she's willing to give you a chance.'

'Is she now? How charming of her! How about the drinking – Abstaining, is she?' Sherlock couldn't help but tease, a bit of steel underlying his playful tone.

'Yes, actually. Off the booze for more than a month – so …' John trailed off.

'I guess that's really good,' and the steel was gone, replaced by warmth when Sherlock looked at John. He smoothed some unruly hair out of his forehead, 'I know how much you care about her - she's your sister.' His voice became urgent, 'But John, I don't have to like her, she doesn't have to like me – and it's still going to be fine.'

'Yeah, I guess so. As long as you manage to be civil with each other,' John pressed his forehead against Sherlock's and those ice blue eyes swam in front of his face like snowflakes.

'Listen, Sherlock. There's something I want to tell you – Something I want you to know. If we hadn't been able to reach a kind of understanding, Harry and me, and I would have had to choose –'

'Yes?'

'I'd have chosen you – always, always you,' John felt tears well up in his eyes, he kissed Sherlock and they both kept their eyes open as if this moment called for attention, as is memorizing the other's face was crucial. They kissed, tender and sweet kisses, and they both sensed this could be one of those decisive moments that one couldn't necessarily recognize at once, but which later would prove to be one of the puzzle pieces making them whole.

Sherlock whispered, 'I'm happy, you know.'

'Couldn't be happier,' John answered softly. 'One thing, though - What about Mycroft? Shouldn't we tell him as well – kind of make it official?'

'Don't worry, love. I'll text him first thing tomorrow morning. That's something I've been looking forward to all week.'


	8. Will you ... ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pops the question...
> 
> I actually can't believe that I'm doing this – but there you go! 
> 
> Enjoy it and be happy for the boys!

**How's the diet? SH**

How's the good doctor?MH

**Fine SH**

Why text me at this inconvenient time and enquire about my eating habits? MH

**Mycroft, substantial changes cause me to contact you SH**

Are they now? MH

**Yes SH**

So? MH

**Well SH**

You might just come out with it. MH

**Yes SH**

Shall I have the honour? MH

**You shall SH**

Well, my dear brother, I take it you want to enlighten me? MH

**Yes SH**

About your personal life? MH

**Yes SH**

About your ongoing intimate relationship with a certain army doctor? MH

**Quite SH**

Do you want my humble opinion? MH

**Not particularly, no SH**

Why text me, then? MH

**It seemed the decent thing to do SH**

Since when would decent concern you? MH

**We decided to tell everybody and since you are my family … SH**

Thank you MH

**Well, what do you think? SH**

I can't say it comes as a surprise and I'm rather delighted. It might be your making, dear brother MH

**What are you implying? SH**

Give my regards to your boyfriend, would you? MH

**I might need your help SH**

I thought I'd never live to hear that from you (or read ;-D) MH

**Will you? And why the sudden use of emoticons? SH**

What? MH

**Will you help me? SH**

That will depend entirely on the circumstances, my dear little brother MH

**No need to be complicated SH**

Tell me then, dearest Sherlock MH

**I need your help in a legal matter – a very personal matter SH**

Diogenes Club, 2pm, Friday MH

**How's the diet? SH**

FINE! MH

 

 

x

 

Four months, three weeks and three days – Sherlock sensed with all his being that it was time to move on now. He had been brooding for quite some time because he felt it crucial to take the next step. All he needed was to pluck up the courage and choose the right moment. Thanks to Mycroft, who had been more than supportive, he knew everything there was to know about the legal aspects of this adventure – so now it was up to him. He was well aware that normal people would consider taking this step after so short a time a bit risky, but he wasn't _normal people_.

Still, he couldn't believe how apprehensive he felt, how ambivalent, how exhilarated and frightened to the core at the same time. He as much waited for as he dreaded the moment – It would be another _first_ in his life. He smiled, he was absolutely sure that there would never be a _second_.

 

x

 

'I can't understand you!' John was furious – seething in fact. 'Sherlock, seriously - How could you do that? I mean - I know you – I know how you tick, but that was way too harsh, even for your standards. It was inexcusable.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and paused taking off his coat, 'What have I done?' he asked innocently.

'What you have -?' John snorted, he was incredulous. 'You went on about how the attacker used a sharp serrated knife on the little girl and demonstrated it on her prone, unconscious figure while her parents stood nearby. You were even quietly chuckling, for God's sake.'

'John, I was verifying a theory as it had just come to me how he must have been left-handed because of the unusual cutting pattern and depth of the cuts and how it might lead us to him, don't you see?'

'That's not the bloody point, Sherlock! You traumatised those parents. You showed no regard whatsoever for their feelings. Their daughter had been abducted. They have gone through three hellish days.' John used his fingers now to count down the arguments which really annoyed Sherlock. 'They had just learned that their daughter was still alive, but heavily injured. They rush to the hospital just to find a madman in a black coat chuckling over the agony of their poor daughter.'

'I wasn't laughing, and I wasn't making fun of her agony. I was only interested in the traces her attacker had left. Vital traces. Clues, John. Clues that will lead me to him. It wasn't my fault that the parents heard me.' Sherlock was trying to make John see his point, but he raised his eyebrows questioningly and the corners of his lips curled downwards as he was getting sulky now. He really couldn't see where he had gone wrong.

'Sherlock, do you not care about the parents?'

'Do you want me to be honest?'

'Yes'

'Not particularly, no.'

John flinched, he had seriously expected a different answer after all those weeks and months of Sherlock opening himself to others. He knitted his brows in disbelief and studied Sherlock's face. It was free of emotion, impassive, it was clear that the injured girl didn't bother Sherlock and that he couldn't grasp John anger.

'I don't understand, John. Why are you so upset? You know what I'm like. You know that I must detach myself from feelings when I'm working. Had I met the girl, let's say in the street, I might have looked at her differently. But she's part of a case that I want to crack and I do not allow myself to feel for her.'

'I see, Sherlock,' John said dejectedly, 'It's – alright,' it was hard for him to accept Sherlock's coldness today, more than usual. But he didn't want to prolong this useless fight unnecessarily. He wiped a hand over his eyes and sighed tiredly. Without paying any more attention to Sherlock he slowly turned and went into the kitchen to make some tea. It was a sad excuse really - more than tea he actually wanted to have some time to think things through – unobserved – unanalyzed – unscrutinized by Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock shrugged out of his scarf and coat, he let them fall on a chair in front of the desk and busied himself with the laptop. He was unsure where they were standing now, but he was grateful for some respite. Usually John wouldn't let him get away so easily and it somehow troubled him. He watched John out of the corners of his eyes, how he filled the kettle, set out the mugs, the teabags and as from a silent understanding he set out to make tea for both of them. Sherlock tried to concentrate on the case notes; he wanted to write them down as long as they were still fresh on his mind. But he was very bothered by how John seemed drawn into himself, distant - Almost out of his reach.

John went through the motions of making tea, but his mind wasn't in it, he was back at the hospital. He was so troubled because of the little girl, Hannah, five years old. Lying on that white hospital bed, so small, so vulnerable and the sight of her had tugged at John's heart. He had felt an overwhelming compassion for the father and mother standing next to their only child, helpless and frightened. This little girl had touched upon a longing inside him that he hadn't been aware of for a very long time. The longing to have a child so that something of yourself would live on; something that would serve as a visible sign that he, John Watson, had been on earth at all. What have you achieved in life if you haven't raised a child?

He had always seen himself as a father one day. Married with children, that had been his conventional view of his future. That had been a given. Then Sherlock had happened, and the thought of one day having a family had been pushed into the dark, dusty recesses of his mind. But the thought had never quite left him. And today it had surfaced with a vengeance. What had made today so crushing was that he had realised it would be inevitable for him to let go of that particular image of his future, of that yearning, forever – and now he was mourning, grieving the loss of his unborn children – _Get a grip, Watson. Stop being soppy, you sound like some cheap trashy novel_ – and he had to smile despite the sadness that filled him.

He also realized that this was the reason why he reacted so strongly to Sherlock's indifference. This little girl had been a vision of what could have been – and Sherlock hadn't seen her any different than - let's say – a fifty-year old man. He knew he was being unfair, Sherlock simply didn't feel that way – how could he? And how could he fathom this hidden yearning that tugged at John's heart ever since they had left the hospital? John had transformed this mourning into rage, he had vented his anger on Sherlock and his coldness, for it was much easier to berate him for his failure than telling him about his useless, nonsensical emotions. John was one-hundred percent certain that Sherlock wouldn't understand.

The kettle boiled and he filled the two mugs without thinking, adding milk to his mug and two sugars to Sherlock's. He walked over to him and put the mug down next to the laptop. 'Thanks, love,' Sherlock murmured who seemed to be lost in his case notes. John planted a kiss on the top of his head and left the living room. He felt the need to be alone.

 

x

 

Sherlock looked up when John unexpectedly passed his favourite chair and left the room. He frowned, he didn't understand why John would break their routine. Surely it wasn't because of their row? They had had much worse – and John wasn't the one to back down so easily, he usually would put him in his place, lecture him about his shortcomings. What should he think of his silence? He felt disquiet and it truly bothered him.

He got up from the desk and followed John upstairs to his former bedroom, now serving as something between a makeshift half-finished lab and a storeroom. Softly he opened the door and saw John sitting on the floor, the mug next to him. He was facing the window and looking down on something in his hands.

'John?' Sherlock asked softly, 'Why did you come here? What are you doing?' He stepped closer to him and peered down. John held a photo in his hands, it showed Sophie, the little baby girl of his friend Andrew, born a few months ago. Sherlock was amazed by John's expression, by the tender smile as he looked down on that photo.

'Love, what's the matter?' Sherlock sat down on the floor next to John, he wasn't sure whether he wanted to be touched or comforted, so he just placed a hand on his knee. John started as if he had only just realized that Sherlock had come into the room and was in fact sitting next to him.

'What are you looking at, John?' Sherlock gently asked again.

'Little Sophie,' John's voice sounded muffled, full of emotion.

Sherlock glanced at him, 'Why, love?'

John shrugged and put the photo down on the floor in front of him. 'It was – that little girl in the hospital – Hannah. She made me realize something,' he broke off unwilling to go on. Sherlock gently coaxed him, 'Tell me, John. What is it that's troubling you?' John looked down on his hands in his lap and from there his eyes wandered to Sophie's photo. 'You know, Sherlock, I always saw myself as a dad. When I was younger I would picture myself married with children at the age of thirty-five. I've passed that age, I've passed forty and now – ' He hesitated, it was hard to say what he had on his mind without coming across as accusing or hurting.

'And now you live with me and I am undoubtedly not a woman – and there goes you dream of becoming a father.' It was said matter-of-factly, but not in a cutting or condescending way. Sherlock had spoken gently, his voice full of understanding. John glanced up at him. Sherlock was surprised by the sadness on his face, on impulse he put his arms around John and drew him close, close. He wanted to chase away the sadness - he wanted to give him warmth and shelter.

'Sherlock, I don't even know if I really want children or if I could be a good father. It's just this letting go of a possibility – it hurts.'

'I see, love.' Sherlock gently rocked John in his arms, 'You know, I personally never felt that urge to reproduce – I guess there are quite a lot of people who'd say I should definitely abstain –' John snorted, 'But I understand why you are so sad, I really do. And honestly, love, I think you'd be a very good father.'

John leaned his head against Sherlock's chest and closed his eyes. He drank in Sherlock's scent which was so familiar for him – his closeness relaxed him and he felt some of the tension and sadness drain away. 'I think you'd have brilliant children, Sherlock – smart, annoying and pretty.'

'Just imagine all those little Sherlocks putting all the little Andersons and other imbeciles of this world in their place …' Sherlock tried to make light of it, and he felt John relax against his chest. His hands moved up and down John's back in a soothing rhythm. They sat like that for a while until Sherlock felt the overwhelming need to move on and to ask … – after all this moment was as good as any, really – and he immediately became flustered. He tried to relax and urged himself to go through with it - now.

'John, love. There's something I wanted to ask you –' His nervousness increased, suddenly he was unsure if this really was the right moment. In fact, his hands became clammy and his heart started to pound wildly. What if he didn't want him? What would he do? Where would they stand then?

'Hmm?' John murmured against his chest.

Sherlock sat back a bit forcing him to lift his head and to look into his eyes. John frowned, he was surprised by the intensity of Sherlock's gaze.

'John, will you - ,' he halted because his voice broke and he had to clear his throat, 'John - will you marry me?'

John slumped back on his heels and his mouth fell open. He didn't say a word. Sherlock heart clenched and fear fluttered in his chest like the wings of a trapped bird. His fingers began to tremble and he let his eyes nervously dart over John taking in his posture – _he's taken aback_ – his open mouth – _completely surprised_ – his silence – _say something, please!_

John gulped, 'Sherlock, don't play with me. Please, don't do this to me,' he averted his eyes, 'Is this your idea of comfort?'

Sherlock knitted his brows, he didn't understand, 'Why - comfort? I don't see –'

'Because - I'm sad? Do you want to comfort me with this - this idea of marriage?' John sounded as if this notion was entirely alien to him.

Sherlock was hurt by this reaction – never ever had he expected this. 'It's not like that – absolutely not! I'm not - not playing with you. How can you even think that?' Sherlock was incredulous, of all the possible reactions he had imagined, this hadn't been one of them. 'I thought, now that we have told everybody and we live together, we love each other that I want to have you entirely for myself. I want you to be my family.'

'Sherlock – Do you honestly think this is the next step? Telling everybody and then rushing off to a kind of shot-gun wedding? We're not Romeo and Juliet for God's sakes. We are grown men, Sherlock.'

When John saw the hurt and sadness flicker across Sherlock's face he relented. He had been so surprised by Sherlock's proposal – he had been completely unaware that this had been on his mind. How could he have guessed that Sherlock who had been so troubled by the thought of love would be the one to pop the question?

He said in a gentler tone, 'Don't you think this is too rash, too soon, love? We've only been together for a few months.'

'Four months, three weeks and five days and I know I won't feel any different in three weeks or seven months or a year.' Sherlock's voice was insistent, 'Why should we wait? I know that my feelings won't change. I'm yours and you are mine and I won't let you go – ever.'

He gently touched John's cheek with his index finger and leaned down to kiss John. John closed his eyes and relished his touch and he could feel some of his resistance melt away. Sherlock pressed his forehead against John's and whispered, 'I've never told you, but I was always convinced that if I was ever able to love I wouldn't love more than one person in my life and this person is you, John.'

John sat back on his heels, he needed to take him in from a distance, 'Are you serious about marrying, Sherlock? Do you really want this? I couldn't take it if this was just on the spur of the moment –' John broke off, he couldn't believe the feelings rushing madly through his mind and body – exhilaration, overwhelming joy, fear, doubt, surprise - you name it, John felt it. But most of all he felt love for this impossible man who did everything his own way.

Still, he couldn't believe it, couldn't grasp it – Marry? Sherlock? - Yes! YES! - His heart skipped a beat and his face split into an almost impossible grin. Shuffling on his knees he moved closer to him. They were both on their knees - as it was appropriate in such a moment, he thought - facing each other.

John lifted his head and planted a kiss on Sherlock's slender neck. He carefully placed both hands on either side of his narrow hips and held onto him. His lips moved upwards, slowly, trailing along his jaw and brushing over his lips before he kissed him. Sherlock's lips parted and their tongues intertwined, exploring, seeking reassurance.

After a moment Sherlock broke their kiss and cupped John's face. He fixed his captivating eyes on John who answered the unspoken question he saw in them with an almost imperceptible nod. Sherlock's face lit up and his lips curled into a smile.

He softly kissed John and asked again, 'John, will you marry me?'

John locked eyes with Sherlock and this time the answer came without hesitation and from the bottom of his heart, 'Yes, I will.'


	9. High Hopes and Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some engagement sexiness ...

'Yes, I will.'

Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat when he snatched John into a truly bone-crushing embrace. John responded by wrapping his arms around his slender back and holding on to him. He closed his eyes and buried his face in Sherlock's neck breathing in the warm scent that lingered there. Sherlock's skin was hot to the touch and he exuded nervousness, excitement and elation in waves, his whole body seemed to be in outrage, desperately in need to be calmed down. John held onto him until he felt the tension lessen and his muscles slightly relax. Closeness, physical closeness - that was all they craved now - they had never been more unwilling to let anything come between them.

'I love you, John,' Sherlock said with certainty and there was a twist to it John heard and knew how to take – his words were underlined by awe. He very rarely said those three little words, but now it felt absolutely right.

'I love you too, Sherlock – always will,' he whispered back.

Gingerly John moved his hands up from the small of the back where they had nestled safely and buried his fingers in Sherlock's curls. A sound, almost like the purring of a cat escaped Sherlock's mouth – John knew that Sherlock loved it when he played with his hair, his scalp being oversensitive to the tingling touch of his lover's fingers. John smiled when he heard this soft purring and twisted his fingers gently, weaving them through the shiny mass of black hair, entangling and disentangling those lovely curls.

Almost in slow motion he carefully tugged and pulled Sherlock's head back to gain access to his pale delicate throat. Matching the rhythm of those arousing soft purring moans he traced his fingers over his forehead down his cheekbone, following the jaw line and along the neck until they curled around Sherlock's bony shoulders. Sherlock's lips parted and his eyes fluttered closed.

John's lips found his throat, brushing over the paleness, alternating between sensuous kisses and little bites. Down, down he pressed his lips into the hollow of his graceful collarbone feeling the still frantic pulse of Sherlock's heartbeat. When he bit down on the soft flesh there Sherlock gasped and threw his head back, even further exposing the creamy expanse of his throat and long neck, willingly offering himself. How John loved that elegant curve of his neck, the tendons standing out because of this almost unnatural angle.

John accepted his offer and licked over the lovely marble skin before he moved on to his Adam's apple making Sherlock moan with pleasure, a shudder rippling over his whole body. Sherlock needed more contact now so his hands traced their way up John's back to his face, lingering there for a moment, ghosting over his temples and his cheekbones before gently pushing him even further down. It made John chuckle that Sherlock was so impatient. He started undoing the buttons of his black shirt, planting a kiss on each exposed inch of flesh. Sherlock's head fell forward and his fingers caught in John's hair.

John slid his hands inside the shirt making contact with skin, roaming up and down his smooth back, his sides, his narrow hips, lingering on his chest. He leaned in and kissed. When he closed his mouth over one nipple encircling it with his tongue he heard a sharp intake of breath and Sherlock gripped his hair rather painfully. John winced, but didn't mind the pain, in fact he welcomed it, it added to the already impossible arousal he felt. That he welcomed pain was a notable difference to making love to a woman, so he'd learned. With Sherlock it was all sharp angles and bones, and yes, sometimes there was pain, but always, always there were mind-numbing sensations and passion. With Sherlock there was no need to be gentle or to hold back, there was never a need to restrain. John could always let himself go.

His fingers went on caressing, smoothing, stroking – and he was rewarded with low throaty moans which made him almost dizzy. When Sherlock looked down on him, his eyes were wide, the pupils fully dilated and his gaze full of desire. He was panting, impatient, aroused – 'John' he gasped.

'Lie back, love,' John whispered and Sherlock obeyed – and when he felt those warm lips on his chest again, this hot breath tingling his stomach, the lips moving down, down - he closed his eyes and submitted entirely to John and their pleasure.

 

x

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked a few times in an attempt to chase away the lingering drowsiness. He glanced around - the room lay in darkness, the only light was coming from the streetlighs. It was cold, but he felt the reassuring weight of John's head on his chest and his legs across his own, their fingers intertwined. And if the steady rhythm of his breathing was anything to go by John was still fast asleep. There were lying on the floor wrapped in an old duvet they had found between John's belongings. Satisfied and happy they had fallen asleep, emotionally and physically drained after their post-engagement lovemaking.

Carefully Sherlock tugged the old duvet upwards trying for more warmth. A smile found its way from deep inside Sherlock's heart and soul and sneaked onto his face when he grasped what had happened.

_– I'm going to get married! - John is going to marry me! - He's mine!_

Instinctively he tightened his grip on John who responded by smiling sweetly in his sleep. Sherlock felt dizzy with all the emotions and the adrenaline pumping through his body – he felt a natural high – something he had so far only associated with exciting murder hunts or the thrill of cracking a particular tough case. No, that wasn't entirely correct – he had learned to attribute this kind of feeling to John as well, to love and intimacy to be precise, to sex and fulfillment – and now he felt he had achieved everything he had ever wanted.

He felt like a mountaineer after having ascended Mount Everest, he felt like a runner having completed the London marathon, he felt like having converted the decisive penalty in the world cup final. He smirked – all those second hand emotions he had to revert to because there was nothing stored in his mind palace which was coming even remotely near to what he felt. This was highly unusual, he was completely out of his depths, lost at sea – But he knew there would be a new chamber to be filled soon, and this life-changing moment would be the first item to be stored in this chamber marked _marriage_.

This moment! It felt like he had cracked the most important case of his life – He was exhilarated, he was outrageously, utterly and stupidly happy. He was absolutely sure that this was the right thing to do, the only possible thing to do and he knew that John felt the same. Sherlock sighed deeply and John stirred in his sleep.

Gently Sherlock moved the pad of his thumb over John's cheek trying to rouse him. 'John,' he whispered, 'Wake up, love.'

John's eyelids fluttered and slowly, slowly he woke, opening his eyes. He blinked and tried to focus and finding Sherlock's gaze resting on him his face lit up with the sweetest smile possible, 'Sherlock.'

'John, do you think it will change anything?' How typical of Sherlock to plunge right into the deepest part of the pool instead of dipping one tentative toe in first, so to speak – but John understood him perfectly.

'It will, yes,' John yawned, 'I will see you differently because you will be my – my - husband! I can't believe that, that's – oh, for fuck's sake – that's such a big step.'

'Any qualms?'

'No - No, none at all – But seriously, when you realize that this is it, you're really going to get married, it's humbling, it's awe-inspiring, frightening, exhilarating – oh I don't know how to put it really.'

'I know. It's terrifying, isn't it? I'm elated and frightened to the bone, that's exactly what I feel. Fascinating - Interesting! There is no need for fear, though - We will go through it together, you and me.'

'We will, Sherlock,' they kissed and John gently dragged a hand across Sherlock's naked chest leaving goose bumps in its wake. He smirked - Sherlock's skin was susceptible to the faintest touch as if it was determined to make up for all those years of neglect.

'Have you already thought about the proceedings? You know, where to go to for the reception if there will be one, who to invite?'

'Haven't the faintest,' Sherlock chuckled, 'Honestly, I was scared stiff about popping the question and your possible reaction, I couldn't think about anything else. But I talked to Mycroft some weeks ago, about the legal part of the marriage - or rather civil partnership as it is called.'

'Mycroft knows? What did he say?'

'He was delighted. That's as enthusiastic as Mycroft gets as you might know. But I got the feeling that he really approves and you know that he trusts and likes you.'

'I'm flattered,' John said sarcastically, 'So we have Mycroft's blessing. That's a relief.' Sherlock smirked. 'Have you thought about a date at all?' John asked.

'No. I thought it best if you'd be the one to decide, love.'

'Oh - Right. Well, I don't know. I've never done that before, but I guess we do need a bit of time for all the preparations?' he halted, 'Oh my goodness, I still can't believe it – we're here, talking about our wedding! And I actually feel like a blushing bride.'

Sherlock smiled and brought John's fingers to his mouth kissing them lightly, ''There is one thing I have thought about, John. I would very much like to have just the two of us for the ceremony. I don't know, but this is something I feel quite strongly about. We could have a reception for our friends and family in the evening.'

'I think I can get used to this idea,' John shifted a bit, trying to ease some pain in his shoulder, 'Will we tell everybody soon? We should avoid crashing Lestrade's fansite, though. I think this idea has outlived itself.'

'Agreed,' Sherlock chuckled, 'Why not wait and tell them at the party after the ceremony. Surprise them, I think I would like that.'

'I bet you would.' John settled on his side, placing a hand on Sherlock's chest, relishing his warmth, feeling the steady pounding of his heart. There was something on his mind, something he wanted to tell him.

'Sherlock, you know that I often live through nightmares,' Sherlock nodded and turned so that he was facing John, 'They don't trouble me as much as they used to, but they still come. But recently there has been a different dream I kept having. In this dream I am much older, lined, grey and wise. I'm old, but I'm happy and content –' John broke off.

Sherlock gently urged him to go on, 'That sounds nice – And am I anyway near you? Where am I in this dream, love?'

'Right beside me. You are always right beside me.'

Sherlock smiled and kissed his husband-to-be.


	10. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations for their big day ...

**The Location**

 

**Country Hotel?**

 

'Oh yes! This is nice,' John turned around on his heels to take in the totality of the bright room overlooking the flower garden of the country hotel. 'Good size, not too big. We won't have that many guests, it will be a small reception.'

The hotel manager smiled his false professional alligator grin, reserved for the undecided, for those he felt would probably only look but never buy. But as he prided himself being a pro he made an effort nonetheless. 'And the name would be? You see, I'm always filling out a reservation card, just in case, so we can make sure it will be available on your wedding day should you decide to hold your festivity in our hotel.'

'Oh? Right, then. It's Watson-Holmes,' John replied.

'Thank you, Sir. And the future Mrs Watson-Holmes couldn't make it today? Trusts her future husband to reach the right decision, does she?'

John grinned and was about to answer when Sherlock leisurely strolled into the room, hands in his trouser pocket. With one glance at the manager he walked over to John and lightly kissed him on the lips. Turning nonchalantly around he offered his hand to the manager, 'Sherlock Holmes, bride-to-be.'

'Dan Johnson, m - manager,' he stammered and blushed a very unappealing crimson, a stark and unbecoming contrast to his strawberry blonde crew cut. He shook Sherlock's hand and half-turning hissed in John's direction.

'You should have told me, Dr Watson!'

'Told you what, Mr Johnson?' John innocently asked.

'Well – that you were – um – that your bride is - a _man_.'

Sherlock snorted and Mr Johnson glanced at him, taking in this extraordinary specimen of a 'bride-to-be'. He felt very uneasy.

'What seems to be the problem, Mr Johnson?' Sherlock's voice fairly boomed in the rectangular room, he knew quite well when to make full use of his fine baritone.

'Nothing personal, of course, Mr Holmes, but we have a strict company policy. We don't accept wedding receptions of same-sex couples. It might disturb the other guests.'

Sherlock cocked his eyebrows, 'Oh, but I do take it very personal, Mr Johnson. Very much indeed. I'm downright offended by your narrow-mindedness. And I am sure my fiancé as well. Aren't you, love?'

John managed to keep a straight face and nodded.

'I wasn't aware that one could get as far as hotel manager when harbouring such backward ideas. How come modern life hasn't touched upon this godforsaken piece of England yet? How come nobody has cried wolf and brought the vultures of the tabloids here? How come nobody has smashed your hypocritical bourgeois little piece of shit of a country hotel into smithereens, you sanctimoniuos little prat?'

Sherlock had spoken softly, friendly even, entirely at odds with what he actually said.

The manager huffed indignantly and the flush on his face heightened to a frankly alarming level.

'I'm sure you won't take it personal when we decline any fabulous offer you might choose to offer, the all inclusive, wedding suite, chauffeur, flower arrangement, you-name-it-we-have-it package, and tell you this: You can stuff it! Good afternoon, Mr Johnson!'

Sherlock turned on his heels and strutted out of the room.

'And that's as polite as he gets!' John said proudly. 'A very good afternoon to you, Mr Johnson!' and grinning from ear to ear he followed Sherlock out of the hotel.

**  
**

**Maybe the Holmes Mansion ... or …?**

 

'What about your family home, Sherlock?' John asked drowsily. They were lying on the sofa, John's head resting on Sherlock's chest. 'Mycroft mentioned it the other day. He thought it might be a good idea, there's enough space, enough bedrooms for the guests. And I'm sure your mother would be more than delighted to help us …'

'Lovely idea, John,' Sherlock said sarcastically, 'But you do seem to forget one essential detail!'

'Oh? What would that be?'

'We agreed not to spill the beans before we're actually married, remember? We wanted to surprise everybody afterwards, in the evening. Basking in the astonished faces of our loved ones.'

John snorted.

'Mummy bustling around with outrageous flower arrangements and telling everybody who would listen that her youngest is getting married to a man wouldn't be exactly keeping it secret, would it?'

'True,' John conceded.

His head was all but buzzing with all the necessary and unnecessary details, all the preparations for their day. Deciding on a location proved to be more difficult than they had thought, but at least they had all the paperwork ready and the date was set. Everything else could be arranged somehow, John was sure. All these trappings weren't important for John anyway, it was the fact that they would make a statement to the world and to themselves which made everything so thrilling. Every time he thought about Sherlock becoming his husband, his heart fluttered and his skin tingled.

'It's enough that Mycroft knows, everybody else will have to wait.' Sherlock yawned.

It had been a hard day for both of them. Lestrade had been adamant, he had wanted to tie in a few loose strands of their last big case and they had spent hours at the Yard reading and checking interviews.

'Yes, but that still leaves the question _where_ to tell everybody,' John hooked his leg over Sherlock's and snuggled closer. Sherlock tightened his grip on John in response.

'What about Angelo's?' John asked, 'After all he had us down as a couple from the word go.'

Sherlock's chest reverberated with soft laughter – Yes, he remembered their first conversation about girlfriends and boyfriends at Angelo's very well.

'And it's not too posh or fancy so nobody will suspect a wedding reception when we invite them to join us for a little celebration there. What do you think, Sherlock?'

'I think it's perfect, John. A very fitting choice indeed.'

Sherlock tipped John's chin upwards and kissed him gently.

 

**The Suits**

 

John wasn't looking forward to this afternoon's endeavour. Sherlock had been less than enthusiastic himself, but they had both agreed that it was important. When they walked past the fronts of those fancy little shops in Savile Row, John felt a knot in his stomach. This was surely going to be awkward. He wasn't a suit's man. His body simply wasn't made for most of the fashionable styles. It wasn't that he was too stout or stocky or anything, but let's face it, he was short - Finding a good suit had proven quite a feat in the past. And for his wedding he wanted the suit to be perfect.

Sherlock was less than enthusiastic for entirely different reasons. He of course had no difficulties finding a smart suit. Just look at him, John thought, he was born to wear suits. No, Sherlock considered it boring, shopping for clothes was something he only did when it became inevitable. That's why he was such a firm believer in outstanding quality and timeless styles. It simply saved him the trouble of having to go through this ordeal more than once or twice a year. But today was different - of course it was. Today was important because he wanted to do this for John and he wanted to look fine for him.

 

x

 

'What about his one?'

John stepped out of the fitting room and turned this way and that in front of the mirror. He was wearing a lovely dark grey three-piece suit and he looked simply stunning. The shop assistant plucked at the hem of the jacket and straightened the lapels, constantly babbling away about the quality of the cloth, the timeless style and whatnot.

'With you in a second, love,' Sherlock said from behind the curtain in the adjoining fitting room causing the shop assistant to raise a finely plucked eyebrow. She stopped fiddling and stepped aside to take John in from head to toe, 'Lovely suit for you, Sir! A wonderful fit!'

Sherlock pushed aside the curtain and when John clapped eyes on him his jaw literally dropped in what was a very unbecoming fashion. Sherlock's suit was almost identical suit to his, a three-piece, in a slightly darker shade and the suit fit him like a glove.

'Oh, look at _you_ , Sir' the assistant gushed in a shrill voice, 'You look exceptionally handsome, don't you!'

Sherlock paid her no heed, but walked straight up to John and kissed him gently on the lips. 'You look wonderful,' he whispered into John's ear.

He made to stand right beside John and they both looked at their reflection in the mirror. Sherlock smiled his wonderful lopsided smile and nodded at John's reflection, 'I think we can tick this off our list!'

 

**The rings**

 

'I want a plain gold band with an engraving, nothing fancy, no stones or such whimsical nonsense,' Sherlock was becoming grumpy.

He hated being dragged around shops. He only held out because they were trying to find their wedding rings.

'Alright, Sherlock. No need to be impatient. I'm all the way with you here. A plain gold band it is,' John felt no urge whatsoever to fight with Sherlock, he was more than content to go with his choice.

'Have you thought about an engraving, Sir?'

The elderly jeweller was a bit confused as to whom address 'Sir' so he let his gaze flicker between the two gentlemen. He finally settled on the shorter man's face if only for the reason that he seemed the more accessible and patient of the two.

'Have you?' John asked Sherlock who was twiddling the ring they had chosen between his index finger and thumb.

'I have, yes,' he carefully laid the ring back onto the burgundy velvet cloth and fingered a paper out his suit pocket. He unfolded it so that John could read it. John's face split into a grin and he took hold of Sherlock's hand.

'That's wonderful, love.'

He turned the small piece of paper so that the jeweller could read it.

'It's exceptional, Sir. I grant you that, but I guess, the whole wedding will be out of the ordinary.'

Sherlock frowned at those words, ready to launch into yet another tirade against homophobic sentiments, but John squeezed his hand and Sherlock bit back all cutting retorts.

'I will have them ready for you at the end of next week.'

The jeweller carefully placed the two wedding bands and the paper in a box, labelling it Holmes-Watson before handing them a receipt.

 

 

'Tomorrow, love. Tomorrow's our day,' John whispered.

He gently weaved his fingers through Sherlock's curls, willing him to relax. Sherlock didn't answer. His eyes were closed, his head placed in John's lap. He was sprawled out on the sofa.

Twenty minutes ago he had come home, moaning with pain. One of his sporadic bouts of migraine had chosen a very inopportune moment to surface. John knew that he needed rest and gentle ministrations besides his painkillers to live through those blasted waves of pain. John weaved his fingers in slow brushing movements through his hair, exerting a little more pressure on the temples, guiding his fingers in circling motions over his forehead. After a few minutes he felt Sherlock slowly relax, his features becoming less pained.

'Why does it have to be today of all days?' Sherlock could only whisper, every loud noise was like the blow of a hammer against the inside of his skull. 'What if I'm not better tomorrow?'

'Shush, love. Don't talk. No need to worry. You will be better and everything else has been seen to. We have a location, the suits, the rings. Nobody suspects anything - Everything will be fine. Everything, love.'

John brought Sherlock's hand up to his mouth and lightly grazed his lips over the soft knuckles.

Yes, John thought, everything will be fine.


	11. This is it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The wedding ... it completes this story.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**Twelve hours**

 

Sherlock tossed and turned in his sleep, he was moaning and thrashing his arms about violently, accidently hitting John hard on the back and jolting him awake. 'Ow!' John complained, 'Sherlock, what is it?' Sherlock, fast asleep, was oblivious to John's enquiry. Willing to calm him and to enjoy his sleepy warmth John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and tried to still his violent movements.

'Shush, love,' John whispered, gently rocking him until the convulsions subsided and he felt him slipping back into quieter sleep. He risked a glance at the alarm clock on Sherlock's bedside table. It was shortly past five in the morning which meant that in less than twelve hours he was going to be his. All his! - His husband – His family – His life. And he was going to be Dr John Watson-Holmes. This thought made his skin tingle with anticipation and he grinned from ear to ear.

John gently loosened his grip and turned to rest on his side the better to watch his husband-to-be. Wide awake now he took the opportunity to study Sherlock in the milky light of the dawning day. Sherlock who was such buzzing, ever-moving creature when he was awake. Never one to idle, always trying to escape slowness, the much-hated little sister of despised boredom. In this silent moment of the early morning he had him all for himself - The disquiet had left him now and he was turned towards John, his face slack and relaxed. John let his eyes roam over that remarkable face. Dashing, was a word that came to mind because it had a slightly old-fashioned, aristocratic quality to it. Falling out of time – as extraordinary as the whole man was extraordinary.

Dark, soft curls were framing his face, fanning out on the cushion, falling into his eyes. His hair was a bit longer these days because John loved it that way and he lifted his index finger to smooth some stray curls from his forehead. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and John snatched away his hand not wanting to wake him. Sherlock had suffered a severe bout of migraine last evening and he needed all the rest he could get. Painkillers and John's gentle head massage had only helped so much, but in the past a good night's sleep had usually done the trick, had managed to relax his over-active mind and to chase away the excruciating pain.

John softly kissed Sherlock on the cheek, it was a mere ghost of a kiss, but it earned him a slight upturning of the corners of his mouth. John huddled up against him, closed his eyes and tried to catch a bit more sleep as well.

 

 

**Seven hours**

 

Sherlock couldn't face breakfast, it was impossible for him to even consider eating, he literally couldn't stomach it because he felt so weak and apprehensive. He dragged his feet into the living room and sat down at the breakfast table. John looked up from his newspaper and knitted his brows when he saw his pale face.

'You look a bit peaky, love. Are you sure you're alright?'

'I'm fine, John. Don't mind m –'

He was not able to finish his sentence, but had to dash to the bathroom. The door slammed shut. John threw his paper on the table and quickly followed him. From behind the bathroom door he heard retching noises and then silence. John tilted his head to the side the better to hear and after a moment he rapped softly on the door.

'Are you alright, Sherlock? Do you want me to help?'

John knew very well that Sherlock minded being vulnerable, hated being ill.

'I'm – okay. Give me a minute.'

John assumed it was just nerves and couldn't help smiling – it was so unlike Sherlock – nerves. It was perfectly excusable, though, showing nerves on one's wedding day. He walked back to the breakfast table and began clearing everything away – surely he wouldn't want anything else but sweet tea.

Sherlock came back from the bathroom, looking pale and flustered, 'John, I don't know what's matter with me, but I feel – ' He waved his right hand about, vaguely indicating his state and made straight for the sofa. With a grunt he slumped down on it. John walked over and sat down next to him.

'It's only nerves, love. I have to admit I don't know what that feels like, fortunately I have nerves of steel and a stomach to go with it.'

'Thanks very much, John. You're a great help, as always,' he whispered sarcastically.

Only Sherlock could whisper sarcastically, John thought and grinned.

'Well, as long as you haven't lost your power of the cutting retort, I'm sure everything else will turn out fine.'

Sherlock snorted with amusement, 'Sure to trust you to come up with some consoling words, my love.' He groaned, 'Seriously, I don't feel too well. I don't think I can eat anything.'

'I'll get you some herbal tea to calm your stomach –'

'No herbal tea, John. Mrs Hudson will smell it and she'll be up here in a jiffy and buzz around us infinitely. We'll never get her out of the flat again.'

'Right - Well. Have some sweet Darjeeling then,' John got up and filled Sherlock's mug, added two sugars and placed it on the coffee table next to the sofa.

'Do you want me to stay with you? It's still some time before I have to get the flowers for us and for Angelo's.'

'Yes,' Sherlock croaked, trying to make the most of the situation, 'Come here, please.'

John slipped next to Sherlock onto the sofa, snuggling up close, careful not to lean too heavily on his still tender stomach. They both tried to relax. John sighed contently and closed his eyes - it might actually be a good idea to find some more rest before all hell would break loose.

 

 

**Two hours**

 

John put on his new white shirt and gently brushed over the cufflinks given to him by his father on his 30th birthday. He had never worn them before, had saved them for a special occasion. Today this special occasion had come as he was getting ready to marry the love of his life. He threaded the golden cufflinks trough the buttonholes and closed them.

Memories were racing through his mind, images, pictures, tastes, threats, fear, bliss, fulfillment - everything and nothing, connected to this extraordinary man who was downstairs, getting dressed in their bedroom. He thought of their first kiss in the dark, chaste, tentative - and it had been Sherlock who had kissed him and it had been Sherlock who had seduced him. There was so much confidence in this man, so much fire. Leave it to him to take the lead – Over the last months they had a found an almost perfect equilibrium, knowing what the other wants and likes, not only in bed, but more importantly in life, in their daily, mundane life.

Of course they had known each other extremely well before Sherlock had been open for a relationship, but being able to show feelings, not having to present this image of a perfect, almost robotic person, had changed him, had made him softer, more amiable and, simply put, more normal.

John donned his tie, closed the buttons of his waistcoat and then shrugged into the jacket. He fiddled a bit with the small wreath of baby's breath with its tiny white flowers and it took several attempts before he had pinned it securely to his lapel. Stepping back he critically gazed at his reflection. He turned this way and that and satisfied with what he saw he offered the man in the mirror an encouraging smile before he made his way down to the living room to wait for Sherlock.

 

x

 

Sherlock was sitting on their unmade bed, half-dressed in suit trousers and shirt. His head was hanging between his knees and he exhaled and inhaled deeply a few times to make the wave of nausea pass.

_For God's sakes, get a grip – it's only a formality, no need to freak out completely._

__He managed to breathe more freely and conjured up the image of John dressing in the upstairs room – And as he had expected this image calmed him, it actually made him smile and feel better. Hundreds of images and memories of the last months found their way from his mind palace and fairly flooded his mind. Tags of memories and images of their love and their finding together, but also of his egoistical mind game with Moriarty which had finally opened his eyes, had made him see what he wanted in life, what John meant to him. He had realised that he needed John, that he was the only person who could keep him in reign. What he was most thankful for, though, was that John had given him a home.

Marrying John was so right, it was the only possible way, the only possible continuation of their story, after all he wanted to spend the rest of his life with this man and he wanted to show the world that they were a unit – Sherlock and John, joined, an entity.

He got up and finished dressing, shrugging into waistcoat and jacket, donning the tie. He glanced only briefly at his reflection in the mirror, John's face would tell him all he needed to know about his appearance. He grabbed the little wreath and opened the door.

John got up when he heard the bedroom door open. He nervously fiddled with his tie and the little wreath. Despite his bragging earlier today he felt very nervous, his fingers were trembling and his palms felt clammy. He turned away from the door to get a grip, he didn't want to add to Sherlock's nervousness. He heard him enter the living room and turned. Sherlock looked breathtaking in his suit and tie, but his lovely fragile face expressed so much tension that John closed the gap between them in an instant and wrapped his arms around him, not caring about crumpling the suit or crushing the poor wreath. Tears welled up in John's eyes and he wasn't ashamed of them. He broke away and took a moment to take in Sherlock.

'My God, you are beautiful, love,' he whispered, 'You make me so proud.'

Sherlock felt himself relax and cupping John's face he kissed him, relishing the tenderness of the moment. He placed little kisses on his jaw, 'You are wonderful' and cheeks, 'And you are mine, John,' his lips, 'I will never be happier.'

They stood kissing, tenderly, slowly and lovingly embracing for a long time, knowing that it would probably be their last quiet and intimate moments today. Sherlock was unwilling to break the spell, but he had one thing to ask of John before they could go, 'Could you help me with this wreath, love? It seems I can't do this alone.'

John had no difficulty fixing it to Sherlock's lapel. He gently patted the wreath and looked up at Sherlock.

'Have you got the rings, love?'

'Yes,' Sherlock patted his suit pocket.

'Ready to go?'

Sherlock nodded solemnly, 'Yes.'

 

 

**One hour**

 

Thankfully they managed to leave 221b without bumping into Mrs Hudson, it would have been quite a feat to talk their way out of the way they were dressed, the little wreaths alone a sure giveaway. Once outside they joined hands instinctively, it was as much to show the world as it was for support. They had decided to walk to the registrar's office and to enjoy the mild spring sun warming their backs. People passing them stared inquisitively, not hostile, though, but in a friendly, curious and open manner. Sherlock and John were exuding happiness and anticipation and it was apparently bouncing off everybody who walked past.

 

 

**This is it!**

 

Two random passers-by they had asked in the street acted as their witnesses. A young woman – _Oh God, yes! How lovely!_ \- who was beaming and was probably even more excited than Sherlock and John and an elderly gentleman who had hesitated only for a fraction of a second - _I would be honoured and delighted to act as your witness, gentlemen._

They had known before that it would be a rather sober occasion – after all it was just a registrar's office and not a church – but honestly? They couldn't care less. The significance of the moment, the life-changing quality of it carried them through the apparent awkwardness on behalf of the registrar. Their lovely witnesses whom they couldn't have chosen better if they had been close friends and simply the fact that it was for them – Sherlock Holmes and John Watson – made everything so special.

One would have expected John to be the more emotional of the two, but the moment John slipped that plain golden band on Sherlock's finger, Sherlock was overcome by emotions and tears started streaming down his face. There were no sobs, it was silent, made all the more beautiful because he just let it happen, didn't wipe those silver droplets away and didn't make a great deal of it. When it was his turn he gently slipped the ring on John's finger and they kissed to the loud whoops of the young woman.

'I love you, John,' Sherlock whispered in John's ear as they embraced and John whispered back, 'I love you, Sherlock and I always will.'

They joined hands and didn't let go through all the following formalities, all the papers they had to sign, giving John the opportunity to get used to his new name – Dr John Watson-Holmes. They proudly accepted all congratulations, proudly accepted their family register, proudly left the office as husband and husband.

Outside, on the little square in plain view of everybody Sherlock kissed John again and this time it was a passionate kiss, a dizzying kiss. He couldn't care less what others thought of them, after all they were quite obviously just married, _for God's sakes_! Laughter bubbled up in Sherlock and he giggled, a pleasant sensation when kissing and being kissed, and John joined in - My Goodness, they had really done it!

Sherlock took John's hand and turned it so that he could see the ring. He smiled and brought it up to his mouth. Gently brushing his lips over his husband's fingers and the shiny ring he said, 'On with the show, love. Let's walk to Angelo's, see if our guests are already there.' He grinned wickedly, 'Let's surprise them!'

 

x

 

'Molly! So nice to see you again! How are you?' Mrs Hudson was fairly beaming, she'd just arrived and was now making her round among the guests at Angelo's.

'I'm fine. Thank you Mrs Hudson. How's the hip?'

'Atrocious, dear! Mustn't grumble though, there's definitely worse!'

Mrs Hudson giggled and continued to peer curiously around the room. Ah! - Inspector Lestrade was there, she particularly liked him - He was such a dashing, such a polite man, and he was highly regarded by her boys. Then there was Harriet - or Harry as she was called - John's sister. Mrs Hudson had only met her the once when she had come by to see John. Mrs Hudson remembered a crackling tension between her and Sherlock, she very much hoped that this had been sorted, she didn't want to be witness to any argument tonight.

Next to Harry stood an elderly couple, quite obviously the parents. The elderly gentleman was a spitting image of John, an older version really, a bit stooped forward which made him seem even shorter than his wife who was a stout and simple woman. She was kneading her hands nervously and her husband placed a calming and supportive hand on her shoulder. Mrs Hudson knew that they lived somewhere in the country and John had once confided in her that his parents hated going up to loud, noisy and sinful London.

In the back a stout bespectacled man around John's age glanced nervously around and held on to glass of white wine. She became aware that he actually winked at her and motioned her to join him. Mrs Hudson frowned - Who is he? – But then he motioned her again, so she walked over.

'Hello there,' she extended her hand and smiled, 'I'm Mrs Hudson, John and Sherlock's landlady.'

'Stamford, Mike Stamford. Old friend of John's and colleague.' He smiled nervously, 'I was wondering if you might have any idea as to what's the occasion? I'm very curious what this evening is about! John didn't let on, but with both families gathered…' he didn't finish the sentence but glanced meaningfully around.

Now, that _was_ quite peculiar, wasn't it? Mrs Hudson had been wondering about that herself. Why this gathering? The invitation had come out of the blue, two weeks ago and it was neither John's nor Sherlock's birthday.

'Yes, you're right,' she agreed.

The families were here – There was John's family and Mycroft, who was just coming back from the kitchen from a little chat with Angelo, was accompanied by a woman who must clearly be Mycroft and Sherlock's mother. She had the raven black curly hair of her younger son, worn in a fashionable cut, but the sharp nose and eyes of Mycroft. She noticed for the first time now that their table was laid with a beautiful white damask cloth, there were small posies of lovely white roses and lots of candles in silver candelabras. She noticed that the rest of the tables in the restaurant were quite plain in comparison.

Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow – What was going on? She hadn't seen her boys all day, they had been quite elusive, no opportunity to drill them with questions had arisen, but –

Mrs Hudson's head swivelled around when the door was opened with a flourish and Sherlock and John entered the restaurant. She cast one look at them and gasped, her hands flew to her face and a strangled cry escaped her mouth –

'Boys! Oh, my boys!' she whispered. She fairly ran to them and hugged both of them, and then unwilling to let go, she alternated between gently stroking Sherlock's face and patting John's arm in a motherly fashion.

'I'm so happy for you, boys! My goodness! Let me see your rings.'

And she grabbed both men's hands to admire their shiny wedding bands. John and Sherlock exchanged a smile - No need for a great announcement then. The other guests looked at each other and when realization finally dawned, their reactions couldn't have been more different.

Molly's heart clenched painfully when she saw their radiant faces, the wedding bands, the wreaths, the suits and realised the _fact_ that Sherlock was married. She turned away to get a grip and to arrange her face into something resembling a happy smile. Of course she knew that these two had been a couple for a while and that they loved each other was plain for everyone to see, but the finality of exchanging the vows was something she had to digest. It also made her realise that now was the time to let go any unrealistic girlish dream she might still harbour somewhere in her romantic heart. She remained where she was and let the others swoosh past her and congratulate the happy couple.

Lestrade went first and in his open and friendly manner he slapped Sherlock on the back, who flinched because he had just realized he would have to endure all kind of unwanted physical contact now, and gathered John in a bone-crushing bear-hug. He was grinning from ear to ear, incessantly muttering, 'I knew it, I just did!'

Mycroft went next. 'I think congratulations are in order, my dear John.' He shook John's hand gracefully and smiled.

'Sherlock!' was all he said to his little brother, but he patted his cheek in a very affectionate gesture. They exchanged a look that spoke of deep, yet unspoken affection.

Their mother was next, making a show of it. Claire Holmes fairly cooed when she embraced her son-in-law, 'John, I am sooo delighted, my dear son! I may call you son? Over the moon I am, I'm definitely over the moon! I can see that you make my darling Sherlock indescribably happy ...' and much more along those lines.

Sherlock took it all in good grace, but Mycroft hissed, 'Mummy, please don't make a scene.'

John smiled at her, bemused, but friendly and let her kiss him delicately on both cheeks.

Molly glanced around, it would be her turn soon, only Harry and her parents were standing undecidedly apart. They looked dumbstruck. Molly frowned, surely they wouldn't dare making a scene? John noticed his family standing undecidedly in the back and taking Sherlock by the hand he walked over to them. John tried to diffuse the tension and bent down to kiss his mother on her right cheek.

'Johnny, why didn't you tell us?' Mrs Watson whined. She looked indignant and close to tears.

'Mum, we didn't tell _anybody_ , we wanted to surprise you and the others. Aren't you pleased?'

John sounded eager, he clearly wanted their approval. Sherlock glanced at him, he deemed it wise not to interfere, but placed his hand supportively at the small of his husband's back. Sherlock had never met John's parents before, but they had of course known about their relationship.

'I don't know Johnny. I never thought it would be like this when you get married. I would have liked to be involved. You could at least have had the courtesy to …'

'We _are_ pleased, Johnny!' his father firmly intercepted with a glance at his wife, 'We are indeed! Come here!'

He hugged his son close to his chest and with an open smile that reminded Sherlock very much of John he extended his right hand to him. Sherlock shook it and smiled at John's parents. He felt the need to explain.

'I'm really sorry if we hurt your feelings, but we decided to have the ceremony entirely for ourselves and to surprise our families and friends later. It was important for us to do it our way.'

'That's a bit selfish, isn't it?' Harry spat, 'But you never think much about other people's feelings, do you, Sherlock? To be honest, I didn't expect anything else from a man like you.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and fixed his gaze on Harry. 'Who's being selfish now, Harry? Me?' he huffed, 'I love your brother so much that I decided to marry him and to spend the rest of my life with him. Think again, Harry. Is it not rather you who's selfish here? _You_ chose to cause a racket and to wreak your ill humour on everybody else on such a day-'

John put his hand soothingly on Sherlock's arm and Sherlock relented. He exhaled noisily, trying to let go all irritation he felt for John's sister.

'Listen, Harry. Let's not argue today. It's our wedding day and we want to celebrate with everybody, with our family. Please stay and we will talk about it some other time. Will you do that for us?'

Harry crossed her arms defiantly in front of her chest, she glanced at her parents and when her father nodded at her, she sighed deeply and rolled her eyes. 'Alright, alright!' she said, not entirely convinced, 'Johnny, I'm happy for you, you know that I am. But I'm absolutely not okay with the way you went about it.'

She glared at John, but then she smirked and kissed her older brother soundly on both cheeks, followed by a fierce hug. She turned to Sherlock, 'You're wrong, Sherlock, I don't want to spoil your day, I really don't. But we must surely talk about -,' she waved her hand indicating herself, Sherlock, John, '- all this. So be prepared that I will take you up on that offer!'

She stood on tiptoes and lightly pecked her brother's husband. He took this kiss and her words for what they were, a peace offering, at least a tentative one, and smiled. Turning on his full charm he offered her his arm, 'Shall we dine?'

 

x

 

It was getting late and John glanced around the table at all those familiar faces. What a festive and happy and at times hilarious occasion it had been, everybody seemed to have enjoyed the food and the company. His mother was chatting happily away with Mrs Hudson as they were probably trying to outshine each other with glorious household stories. Harry and his father smiled and quietly giggled and talked, they shared this almost blind understanding, had always been very close to each other.

Molly, Mike and Mycroft - _What an unusual combination!_ \- were laughing heartily at some jokes Mike had cracked. Claire Holmes sat quietly musing and watched Sherlock and John. John raised his glass in her direction and raising her own glass she mouthed 'To you' and smiled warmly at him.

John was content, very much so. Everything was fine, everybody approved, everybody knew. Contrary to Sherlock, who often proclaimed he couldn't care less what other people thought of him, John had been worried about Harry and his parents' reaction. But now he just felt a warm, fuzzy feeling inside, a feeling that he had learned to attribute with Sherlock. He was sitting next to his husband, feeling his presence and watching him proudly – admiring the way he argued with Lestrade about some case that had occupied them for weeks, his animated face, the way his hands were flying, his genuine smile. He smiles so much more these days, John thought.

With every swift movement of Sherlock's left hand the candlelight caught in the shiny gold wedding band and made it glitter, driving home the significance of the day. John slipped his own wedding band off his finger and turned it in the candlelight to read the engraving Sherlock had chosen for them. He chuckled - How typical! – Really, they couldn't have found a more fitting description of their life, of their significance for each other. To an overly romantic onlooker this engraving might be banal, unusual, strange, out of the ordinary or even loveless – for John is was the epitome of their love.

It read - _Sherlock & John – Far From Boring -_

_  
_

 

The End


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